


Plot Holes

by saltyfeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 09, M/M, Slow Burn, Supernatural and J2 Big Bang Challenge 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 160,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1768144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyfeathers/pseuds/saltyfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course it wasn’t over after the apocalypse.</p><p>There was season six. Then there was season seven. Against all expectations, there was season eight. There were the alphas and purgatory, and then the Leviathans, and then the angels fell. Enter season nine. Loose threads Metatron, Abaddon, and Crowley have to be tied up. Sam, Dean, and Cas have to try to tie them while at the same time dealing with their evolving relationships and newfound graceless states.</p><p>Amidst all the chaos, someone has started publishing the Supernatural novels again. Convinced there’s something amiss in the pages, Charlie starts her own quest to suss out the truth behind the Winchester Gospels.  </p><p>With the help of various faces, old and new, they must now not only deal with the typical runs of demons and recently fallen angels, but also reconcile the battles raging inside themselves, as the fate of the world, once again, quite literally lays in the palm of their hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boys Are Back in Town

**Author's Note:**

> Okay guys, this is it. My entry to the Spn/J2 Bigbang Challenge over at livejournal. This sucker has been in the works for about six months now- the basic idea germinating in my head for even longer- and I am officially ready to let it loose on the world, even though I am totally not because I am terrified.
> 
> Regardless, it's getting kicked out the door.
> 
> I just want to say double triple quadruple thank yous to some people: the mods who set this whole thing up- you guys are amazing and complete saints; to Jo, my beta and friend, bless you; to my artist, slytheringurrl, you rock; to literally anyone over on tumblr who sent me kindness and encouragement over the past months, I can't thank you enough. I love you all and this wouldn't have gotten written without your support.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title taken from the song of the same name by thin lizzy.
> 
> this is part 1/2, just so you guys know. think of it as like the i know what you did last summer (4.09)/heaven and hell (4.10) duo

Usually, Sam and Dean are privy to potentially world ending disasters before they start.

Then the angels fell. Sam collapsed, Cas disappeared, and Dean’s left holding it all together. Typically typical.

The angels fell on a Thursday. (Also typical.)

In a feat worthy of a _Breaking Bad_ meth cooking montage, almost a week passes with nothing more substantial happening than a strategically timed “Have you heard the good word” flyer blowing onto the windshield of the Impala as Dean makes a food run on Tuesday.

The good word, Dean thinks, the _best_ word, at the moment, is unconsciousness. (Well, maybe not at the _moment_ since _at the moment_ he’s operating a motor vehicle, but the very first moment in which he is not doing that anymore, he will most definitely return to his original position on the matter.) Unconsciousness means that he doesn’t have to think about the fact that they have a ‘to do’ list larger than a wedding planner’s, that Sam is hurting on who knows how many levels, that Cas is apparently _human_ now and on his way to Lebanon on a Greyhound bus that inevitably smells like the kind of body odour that’s been allowed to ferment because how high are Greyhound’s janitorial standards, _really_. It makes Dean shudder if he thinks about it too closely, and because he’d rather shudder about sweat stained seats than philosophical questions on the nature of angels losing their wings, or on brothers with charred insides, he _deals_.

Dean Winchester deals with his inevitably shitty life like conmen and blackjack dealers deal cards; smoothly and professionally and totally in control. He’s cool. He’s collected. He’s most definitely not been squashing years and years of trauma down, crushing it like he’s putting it through a trash compacter so he can make room for more awfulness to be carelessly tossed on top of it all over when the cosmic forces of the universe decide to convene again and shit in his general direction.

He’s _so_ professional about it, actually, that he stops the Impala on the side of a dusty backroad so he can lean his forehead on the cool plastic of the steering wheel and fight back the hot, itchy tears that threaten to fall.

The fact that he stopped the car so suddenly that he’s currently sitting in a bubble dust storm of his own making and the bag of food in the passenger’s seat was propelled into the dashboard and is now leaking onto the floor like a much more alcoholic faucet means absolutely nothing. 

He’s fine.

People constantly live with pits of despair in their stomachs, right? That’s a normal, human feeling? To know he’s garbage, to know that he’d be lucky for crows to fight over him like they fight over stray McDonald’s French fries at the dump?

Dean, of course, doesn’t think in such complex and needless metaphors. Dean is a man of instinct, made of inherencies. Bred for self-flagellation. He has always been _less_. Forget nature versus nature, Dean has both sides shooting for the stars of inadequacy.

Dean knows these things, knows them in his rough knuckles and the way his hands sometime shake when he’s doing something that’s _not_ killing. Knows it bone deep, knows it like the lullaby his mother used to sing to him before she kissed him goodnight.

The Impala smells like alcohol, and it makes his eyes sting again.

***

Sam wanted to die on Thursday.

Sort of.

By Tuesday, he’s not so sure.

He’s heard of cases where people have been saved in the nick of time from committing suicide, have said afterwards that in what they thought were their last moments on earth, they realized they didn’t want to go.

Maybe it’s like that. The problem with the life Sam’s lived (and relived, and unlived, and even ceased to live, as the case may be) is that the world’s demise often seems much more important than any paltry ruminating on life his puny human brain could do. So some of the bigger questions like, “what do I want”, or “what am I looking for”, or even, more and more lately, “who am I?” tend to slip through the cracks, or morph and change so rapidly he doesn’t even have time to consciously acknowledge them. He tends to live his life on a case to case basis.

Sam sees himself nowadays as a vessel- not for an angel, mind- thanks to the disturbing trend over the last few years (or maybe the last few decades, depending on the point of view) of his shocking lack of bodily autonomy. Sam is probably half empty by now—for everything he is or isn’t, depending on the day, he certainly isn’t dumb—and it’s definitely been a circumstance of note. Sam doesn’t belong to himself in the same way a normal person does, he doesn’t feel like he has an inherent right to his limbs, to his giant feet or the fingers he uses to do up the snaps on his increasingly ugly shirt collection.

One Halloween, when they were kids, Dean stole an uncarved pumpkin from a nearby farm (the perks of the Midwest is that there’s almost always a farm nearby) and declared they would have a Jack-o-Lantern that year. This was before Sam really knew that his dad killed humanoid beings more often than not in his own version of a suicidal Thursday, so he was intensely fascinated with the way the pumpkin’s innards scooped out and slopped onto the pages they had stolen from the Bible in the nightstand’s lone drawer (since newspapers cost money). Of course, at that age, he didn’t think to question why his older brother (who was, in retrospect, quite young, although to Sam he always seemed like an adult) had an extremely lethal looking knife that would be perfect for pumpkin carving. The seeds and guts came out with satisfying plops, the juice soaking right through the Bible pages (a metaphor that flew right over his head as a kid and has long since been forgotten) and onto the desk beneath. He was fascinated with the emptiness of it, like they had scooped out its very _essence_.

And now, twenty odd years later, Sam is extending some much overdue solidarity to that pumpkin. He understands what it means to be hollow now, to be chipped away at by reckless hands.

It’s Tuesday, and the angels fell last Thursday.

Dean’s out getting food, as if everything is okay and the angels didn’t fall last Thursday. As if Dean probably didn’t stop on the way to or from the store to slam his fists into the steering wheel and fight back tears.

Cas is human, Metatron is a raging, runny little shitstain on the carpet of the universe, Abaddon is out there doing god knows what, they’re up to their eyeballs in fallen angels, and Sam can hardly get out of bed because every time he moves he feels like he’s lighting a match inside his chest.

Even though it was a hallucination that feels like a lifetime ago, he’ll still never forget the words that ‘Lucifer’ said to him while his wall was broken, that time he helped Marin with her brother’s angry spirit in the psych ward.

_Hard to believe you were the guy that saved the world once._

Yeah, yeah it is.

These days, it’s getting harder and harder to believe he was the guy that saved anyone once, let alone himself.

He lies back in his bed with a sigh, watching his chest compress as he exhales. He hopes Dean doesn’t forget the salad dressing or refuse to pick it up on the basis of some ridiculous ‘rabbit food is for rabbits’ bullshit rationale.

***

Cas has been on long bus rides before, but that was when he was an angel.

Now, he’s human. And smelly.

And everyone around him is human and smelly, and one of the unfortunate downsides to being human, Cas has discovered, is that his nose doesn’t just stop working when everyone around him is smelly. He files that complaint away in the mental folder he’s labeled as ‘Things That Should Be Prioritized during the Next Round of Natural Selection’ and leaves it at that, because aside from gently covering his mouth with his hand, there’s nothing he can do.

All he _can_ do is wait for what feels like an excruciatingly long bus ride to be over, even though he’s sure time never moved quite like this before Metatron stripped him of his grace. After all, he watched Dean rake leaves for an entire day once, and never tired of it.

Of course, that could always be more of a _Dean_ thing than an _angelic_ thing, but Cas tries not to dwell on that.

Sweating is intensely uncomfortable, even moreso when he’s forced to sit next to someone who is also sweating. He is criminally aware of how the backs of his knees are damp and it makes him ache for the roominess of the Impala, for a shower, for alcohol, for anything that isn’t sitting on this bus right at this very moment.

But it’s a distraction, of sorts.

Cas, as they say, _brought the house down_. An unfortunately literal turn of phrase for this specific scenario, but Cas finds his mind doesn’t like to work as well in the heat and with a broken air conditioning unit to boot, so it’ll have to do for now.

Dean and Sam don’t know yet. Cas has only talked to Dean once since Thursday, long enough for Dean to promise to wire Cas some money and some quick instructions on how to retrieve it. Not exactly the best or widest window to explain that he accidentally emptied heaven like he was taking out an overfull garbage can, so instead Cas opted to inform Dean he was now human, which was met with the expected surprise, and the maybe-possibly-unconsciously-expected Dean Winchester brand of sympathy.

Cas will take the liberty of misleading Dean, if only so he can have the liberty of explaining his mistake in person.

It’s been hours of chugging and rolling along over steaming asphalt but they’re almost in Lebanon now.

During his last bus trip, with the angel tablet, Cas was still able to maintain somewhat of an aloof veneer. He still had that alien likeness to him that kept most people at bay.

Now he gets slammed around in bus stations and on sidewalks like every other human does. People bump his shoulder and don’t apologize, they step on his toes and then run into him with the narrow sides of their briefcases. He almost fell down a flight of stairs back at the bus station in Colorado because he missed a step and got distracted by the swooping in his stomach he had never been privy to before.

The _rawness_ of it all captures him, if only because his distraught mind is looking for anything to latch onto that isn’t the gigantic mess that no doubt will envelop him once he gets back to the bunker.

He comforts himself with the knowledge that any kind of station is often a platform for reunion, and as much as his stomach churns at the thought of the overwhelming breadth of his mistake, he will soon be in arm’s reach of a person who will no doubt do everything he can to help.

Dean may not have any kind of solution, but it is not solutions Castiel needs right now.

It is assurance.

***

It’s a fucking dump is what it is, but whatever, it’s a bus station. Dean spends a couple minutes looking around, sweating in the heat, until Cas appears through a cloud of Greyhound owned, tar-like gasses that mix disgustingly well with the heat waves rolling off the pavement.

Frankly, Cas looks pretty gross. Hair plastered to his forehead and clothing that looks as stiff as cardboard. The trench coat is gone. So is the suit jacket.

“Good to see ya, man,” Dean says, and wraps him in a hug like he’s not spent the last twenty minutes replaying this greeting over and over in his head. He thumps him on the back once, twice, before fisting the fabric of his polyester button up, trying to pretend it’s not the most solid thing he’s grasped in weeks.

“Dean,” Cas greets, and Dean can hear the exhaustion clear as a bell in his voice. He tries not to act surprised when Cas raises his arms to return the hug, and instead does his best to ignore the sun blazing down on the back of his neck, even though he already feels half fried. He can only imagine how Cas feels.

They pull apart, and it’s awkward. Their bodies were just pressed up against each other, and yet Dean’s forgotten how to articulate.

“How are you?” he asks instead, even though it’s a futile question. Literally everyone in the world lies about the answer.

“I’m okay.”

Yeah, okay.

“That’s good,” Dean says weakly, because everyone lies about the answer, but they also lie about the answer to the answer.

He wraps an arm around Cas’ shoulders, and walks him to the car.

“Let’s get you outta the sun,” he offers, and even opens the passenger side door for Cas. Cas stretches out blissfully in the seat, and Dean can tell how nice it must feel to be in a place where he won’t constantly be sitting with his knees around his ears.

He walks around the car and slides into his own seat, turning the keys in the ignition. They peel out of the parking lot, and it’s quiet. The radio is on but it’s either elevator music or Dean is just tuning it out really hard and doing his best to tune into whatever frequency Cas finds himself on these days.

Dean taps his fingers awkwardly on the steering wheel and tries to ignore the fact that he was practically crying into this same console not two days ago. At least the car doesn’t stink like cheap beer anymore.

“Y’know,” he finally ventures, “I know you’ve had a shitty go of it so far. You’re tired and dirty and- no offense- smell pretty bad. But we’ll figure it out. In the meantime, the bunker has _amazing_ water press-”

“It was my fault.” Cas interrupts flatly.

Dean shoots him a furtive glance.

“What, you mean the whole ‘real boy’ thing?” he says, even though his heart isn’t in the quip. He knows what Cas means. He’s basically worked it out by now. Cas working with Metatron, angels falling, and him becoming human all at the same time—the pieces practically put themselves together.

“The angels,” Cas says shortly. “I fell for his underhanded, _dirty_ tricks.” His hands have balled themselves into fists, and has to take a deep breath to smooth them out again.

“No one’s perfect, Cas.”

A couple years ago Dean and co. had to trap Cas in a ring of holy fire before he would admit to what he was up to. Now Cas is talking over his absurd platitudes, practically tripping over his own feet to confess. Dean’s not sure which one of them that says more about.

Hopefully this particular disaster will keep them more amicable than the last one, at least.

***

On Thursday, a week since the angels, Charlie shows up at the bunker.

Sam answers the door, and the first thing Charlie does is scoff, “Meteor shower. Right.”

Sam scratches the back of his head. “Yeah…” He half laughs.

“Oh my god,” Charlie says, “Don’t tell me it was you guys.”

Sam shrugs neutrally. He’s not in a place yet to determine if ‘you guys’ means just him and Dean, or includes the other occupants (most notably a certain… _acerbic_ recent one) of the bunker.

“So what was it actually?” Charlie asks as she steps over the threshold. “UFO burn up in the atmosphere and rain down death and destruction? Secret military testing? Is the truth really out there, Sam?”

Sam smiles, because Charlie’s great. But he thinks it gets half tugged down into a grimace by the giant circles under his eyes. He _thinks_ he’s healing. At least he’s walking around now.

Charlie notices. “You look like crap, dude,” she says, more softly.

“If it makes you feel better, it’s not from the ‘meteor shower’,” Sam says.

“It doesn’t.”

Charlie follows him down into the library, where Cas is sitting in one of the chairs wearing the same gaunt look he’s worn since he got here.

“This is Castiel,” Sam introduces them somewhat awkwardly, but at least Cas has the grace to glance at her with a nod. “Cas, this is Charlie.”

“Hello,” he says.

“Hey,” Charlie waves a little, and due to the expression on her face immediately seems to regret it.

“I’ll go find Dean and Kevin,” Sam offers. “We’ll get you up to speed on everything.”

***

They’ve migrated to the kitchen, everyone with a cup of coffee in hand.

Charlie’s just gotten the rundown on the last couple of weeks, and since she’s still allowing her brain to process it all, she defaults to awkward levity.

“That’s some _damn fine_ coffee,” she says, doing her best to get the intonation right. She holds up her mug like Simon Pegg describing his zombie-proof safety plan in Shaun of the Dead, and only just stops herself from winking at the camera.

Everyone just stares at her, and she sighs.

“I suppose it makes sense, though. You practically lived that show, anyways. No need to watch it onscreen, too.”

She leans back in her chair and sighs again, a lot more glum this time.

“This whole business sucks,” she offers.

Everyone around the table, including the two she’s just met- Cas and Kevin- raise their eyebrows or mugs in some kind of acknowledgement. 

“I’m here to help,” Charlie continues, “Tech support, sister-in-arms, wingman, whatever you guys need.” She picks up her mug and takes a sip of coffee. “It’ll be cool to save the world along with you guys for once, instead of reading about it in the Carver Edlund books.”

“We need to burn those books,” Dean chips in. It’s a fairly harmless remark, but Charlie knows (both from personal experience, and yes, reading the books) that having his life down in print is actually a really sore subject for Dean. Charlie slowly puts her mug down, actually feeling contrite.

“I know it’s kind of like reading your diaries,” she admits, “but I kind of waived that right of privacy in favor of my own well-being. Your friends tend to last longer if they’re in the know about everything monster-y….” She trails off awkwardly. “Sorry. I really am.”

Sam and Dean exchange a look.

“It’s no big deal, Charlie.” Sam says kindly. “A lot of it is accurate but some of it… well. If you knew the guy who wrote them you’d get it.”

“Well he kind of wrote himself into some of the later books…” Charlie half rolls her eyes as she says it. Even if it’s all about thirty layers of meta (and actually _happened_ , she can’t forget that) that still doesn’t excuse an author from writing themselves into their own material. Major douche move.

“Anyways,” she shakes her head, and looks at Cas. “You were in the books too, Coop. What’s your stance on them?”

Cas seems half out of it as he answers with a mild, “Indifferent.”

“Right. Cool.”

Silence descends on the room and Charlie belatedly realizes she’s done most of the talking since they finished filling her in, and by the state of everyone, she isn’t exactly surprised. She’s already commented on Sam’s state, but everyone else seems half-zombified as well. She’s pretty sure kids Kevin’s age aren’t supposed to look that sapped, and for a guy who was an angel just over a week ago, Cas seems to have succumbed to the incredibly human emotion she likes to think of as ‘permanent five o’clock shadow’. Dean’s not as outwardly tired, but Charlie also knows Dean better than she knows anyone else in the room, and can see how he looks like he just needs to sit in a blanket fort for the next month or so to regain his bearings.

There’s a tension in the room, and Charlie supposes she shouldn’t be surprised. Based on what Dean’s told her about Cas, and what she’s read, and is currently observing with her own eyes, there’s some major unsolved business there. Sam and Dean also seem a little more… out of sorts than normal. She can’t really put her finger on it, but it definitely seems to be one of the patented Winchester boiler matches, where they’ll both stew until it all erupts at an inconvenient time in the plot for everyone.

The doorbell breaks her out of her thoughts, and Dean stands up, chair scraping against the floor, making everyone wince.

“I’ll get it,” he announces, before making his exit, and everyone just kind of stares at everyone else dumbly until they hear Dean yelling at them to get their asses up here.

***

“It’s a head.” Kevin says, in his ‘I still can’t believe this is my life but I’m worried I’m becoming desensitized to it anyway’ tone.

“A severed head,” Sam says mildly.

“Still pumping blood,” Charlie observes queasily.

“A severed head that’s still pumping blood _on our doorstep_ ,” Dean corrects, annoyed. “We’re going to have to clean the blood stains out of the concrete now.”

Sam rolls his eyes.

“Obviously if the neck is still spurting blood, it must have just been severed,” he says, with a meaningful look at Dean. Dean _tsk_ s and reaches for the gun in his waistband.

“Stay here,” he tells everyone else as he steps over the threshold (and around the blood pool). “I’ll make a quick round but they’re most likely gone by now.”

He moves up the steps quickly, turns right, and disappears. Sam can barely hear the dirt sinking under him as he walks off.

Sam turns to Cas, Charlie, and Kevin.

“I’m going with him, just in case,” he informs them, reaching for his own gun.

“Uh, Sam, maybe that’s not-” Charlie begins, but Sam shushes her.

“ _Just in case_ ,” Sam repeats, with more emphasis. He ignores the twinge in his chest and the way his wrist doesn’t want to hold up his gun.

“Kev, you know the knock,” he says, before shutting the bunker door behind himself. He looks down at the head with distaste, can’t help wrinkling his nose. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to wrangle up any real sympathy for the bodies they have to deal with on an almost weekly basis. There’s just not enough sympathy stored in a human body for him to be able to dole it out in heaps and doses anymore. Not to mention he has to save what he can for the next inevitable death of a friend.

He goes left where Dean went right, figures he’ll meet him halfway. Thankfully, the weather has cooled off in the last couple of days instead of the sweat bucket that’s been the last week, so at least Sam doesn’t feel like he’s melting in his jeans.

The front of the bunker seems clear, and Sam climbs up the embankment along the side. Dean’s disappeared into the forest, and Sam does a quick survey of the area before ducking into the first line of foliage. He really doubts anyone who left a decapitated head on their doorstep is going to hang around—generally if people want to talk they try knocking first.

He spends a few minutes searching for any signs of a trail, but from what he can tell, there’s nothing. (Dean’s always been a better tracker than him anyway, Bobby better than the both of them combined.)

Soon enough, every inhale starts to feel like needles puncturing his lungs, and he feels himself stumble.

They’re not exactly sure what’s wrong with him. Cas said it was bad, bad enough that he couldn’t fix it.  They never went to a hospital. After the angels fell, it was a straight line back to the bunker, with Kevin freaking out and Sam collapsing into his bed to play dead for the next forty two hours.

He told Dean, once, that he felt like the trials were purifying him. If that’s the case, purification isn’t nearly as _pure_ as all those Sunday school classes are lead to believe.

Then again, purification by fire is a viable option as well, so maybe the fact that everything starts to taste like smoke and ash if he exerts himself too much makes an awful kind of sense. He’s Lucifer’s vessel, the boy with the demon blood, tainted tainted tainted. Maybe the fire welcomes him.

The point is, though, there’s no one out here except him and Dean. Whoever left the head is gone, and he needs to get back inside before he starts a forest fire.

He takes a step and, naturally, his legs chooses that moment to give out on him.

“Sam?” he hears from somewhere nearby, and it’s probably indicative of their relationship that Sam thinks this is how a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar would feel.

Rough hands are grabbing at his shoulders, panic evident in every squeeze of the fabric.

“Sam? Sam, are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck you.”

He feels like his ribs are going to melt into his heart soon, but at least he’s not moving anymore.

“Why the hell did you follow me out here?”

Sam tries to muster up a prissy remark, but he’s really too tired.

“Just in case.”

“ _Moron_.” Dean heaves him up, and Sam groans. “Like ripping off a band aid, Sammy. Let’s go.”

They stumble back to the bunker, and Dean waves off anyone’s attempts to help. Cas seems to have disappeared into some far corner of the bunker. He usually sticks to the library, but that’s currently empty.

Dean deposits Sam onto his bed, and chastises him for a couple minutes, but Sam really doesn’t pay attention. He pushed limits he shouldn’t have pushed. He’s currently paying for the consequences.

The last thing Sam hears Dean say before he leaves is a quiet, “You gotta stop doing that to me.”

 _It was_ me _who almost died_ , Sam can’t help but think petulantly, before slipping into blissfully cool sleep.

***

Dean and Cas have been doing a strange dance since Cas arrived at the bunker on Tuesday. He flits in and out, like a bad radio signal. They’ll walk by each other in the halls, shoulders brushing, and it’s static. Whoosh. He disappears for hours at a time to god knows where, sleeps like the dead (maybe, since Dean’s never actually seen him sleeping), and eats with such deliberateness that Dean isn’t sure if he’s chewing the food or trying to defuse it like a bomb. It’s basically the same as when he was an angel, except for the aloofness tastes different now; more palpable, penetrable, should Dean ever choose to act and not just waffle in this middle space.

He finds Cas in one of the lab rooms, bent over and peering at the doorstep head from yesterday.  It’s an older man, streaks of grey in his hair and a full beard. Nothing special, except for the fact that he doesn’t have a body.

“No luck on the ID yet,” Dean informs him, moving to stand beside Cas at the observation table. “Figure we wait a couple days and check the missing persons reports from around the country as they come in.”

Cas hmms noncommittally and doesn’t look up. He pokes at the waxy flesh with a scalpel.

“We just have to hope he has someone who’ll file a report,” Dean continues, even though he knows Cas may as well have cotton stuffed in his ears for how much he’s listening.

Dean turns around and leans back against the table, crossing his arms. Cas is about three inches from him and doesn’t react to the change in position at all.

“Cas, man, you gotta level with me,” Dean says.

Cas straightens up and stares at him.

“About what?” he asks, only half suspiciously. His eyes narrow, but Dean brushes it off because Cas does that a lot. Given enough time, he would probably glare at a fire hydrant if it pissed him off enough.

Dean lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

“I dunno. Everything. Anything.” He bites the inside of his cheek for a moment, then says, “This isn’t you, Cas.”

Cas opens his mouth and then closes it, seemingly at a loss. Then his face darkens.

“I’m human,” he states, clipped. “Of course I’m not ‘me’.”

“That’s not what I-” Dean stops when Cas slams a fist down onto the table. The head wobbles, and rolls to one side with a sickening squish.

“I cast my siblings out of heaven,” he starts in the same, controlled voice- despite the way his knuckles are still grinding into the table, “I’ve ruined them, and caused unthinkable damage. Again.” He takes a deep breath, and plunges on. “When I rebelled from heaven all those years ago, it was never my intent to dismantle it, let alone slaughter half the population. It certainly wasn’t my intent to throw them all from their homes.” A bitter laugh, and then, “I destroyed it all. What my father built. It’s-” he brings a fist up to his mouth, and Dean pretends not to notice it trembling. Cas drags his teeth over a knuckle, wrecked. “I ruined so much.” He finishes quietly. “And I don’t- I don’t know--” Another deep breath, and a resigned shrug. “I don’t know anything, Dean.”

Before Dean can even react, let alone offer a bullshit platitude, Cas leaves the room, leaving Dean with a pit in his stomach and a severed head at his side.

***

Two days later, they get a hit.

“Greg Hunt.” A much recovered Sam reads to everyone convened (aka everyone except Cas and Kevin). “From… wow. Lebanon, Kansas.” He frowns at the computer screen. “I’m not sure if we should have seen that one coming or not.”

“Well, it was a fresh kill,” Dean says, “But then again, not everyone from Lebanon is from Lebanon.”

“He was a Minister,” Sam continues, eyes scanning the online missing persons write up. “Originally from Kansas City, transferred to another church here at the beginning of 2010.”

“Ah, the good ol’ apocalypse years,” Dean says faux-fondly. “Good times.”

Sam shoots him a look.

“Which church does he preach at now?” Charlie asks, leaning over Sam to try to get a closer look at the screen.

“Uh…” Sam scans the rest of the obituary quickly. “Pope John XXI,” he says, and then his eyes spark with recognition. “Dean, hey, that’s that church on the same street as that diner you like so much.”

Dean’s already shrugging his jacket on.

“Excellent,” he says, “I could go for a burger right about now.”

***

Cas is invited to go investigate Greg Hunt’s church with Sam and Dean, but declines. Dean gives him a look that promises him he hasn’t forgotten the fairly one-sided conversation they had the other day.

“C’mon, man,” Dean cajoles, smiling. It’s strained, but Cas appreciates the gesture nonetheless. “We’re gonna grab some of the best burgers in the state on the way home. You in? Or can we at least bring you back something?”

Cas recognizes Dean’s need to take care of absolutely everything, but can’t find it in himself at the moment to encourage it.

“I’m fine, Dean,” he says in a tone that hopefully conveys this conversation is over, and finally allows himself to exhale when Dean lifts his hands in surrender.

“Alright,” he says, defeated, following Sam up the stairs to the door. “See you later, then.”

Cas waits until he hears the sound of the door being closed to let the slightest wave of relief wash over him.

He knows he’s being difficult, and altogether a pretty ungrateful houseguest, but something in him won’t let him care about that right now. He’s been walking around with the ghostly weight of his wings on his back since he fell, and feels like he’s been sinking into the floor ever since. The ceilings in the library are fairly high, but he feels caged, in a way he never did as an angel.

He’s been ghosting around the bunker for days, learning the layout through half-unwilling osmosis, finding every possible exit, should they ever come in handy. He follows one such exit, through one of the seemingly forgotten storage rooms. This particular tunnel leads to a small pond in a clearing in the woods behind the bunker. As he walks, all he can hear is the echoing of his footsteps and the rasp of denim. The quiet still unnerves him. He used to be able to feel the earth turning on its axis, and now he has to ask Dean if he wants the volume turned up on the television. He tries not to think of it as downgrading, because after all, these are the humans and their flawed biology he rebelled for.

But during his more bitter moments, (of which there are many) he can’t help but turn his nose up at it.

The sun is out today, he notes, as he closes the hidden, rotting wooden door behind him. It’s not incredibly hot out, but he’ll probably perspire regardless. He makes his way over to the pond’s edge, and sits down, cross legged.

“I’m useless,” he informs the pond, which does nothing but gurgle, oblivious. “And yet I still look down at what I’ve become. Why would I rebel for a species I think is beneath me? Against my family, no less?”

The pond, ever unhelpful, offers no consolation or solutions.

“Humility hasn’t always been one of my strong suits,” Cas admits, tugging up a couple strands of grass. “I was always so sure of myself, even after the initial rebellion. But it just got… hard,” he confesses, throwing some of the grass into the pond. He watches it follow various leisurely currents for a moment before continuing. “It got harder and harder, because there wasn’t right or wrong anymore. There were a myriad of avenues open to me, and no one to tell me which one to follow. And now,” he says bitterly, “ _Now_ , I’m afraid to even breathe, just in case I do it the wrong way. And I’m also talking to inanimate objects,” he gestures at the pond. “So there’s that.”

“I want to speak more often than I used to,” he says quietly. “But I don’t know how.”

***

“What I don’t get, is why someone would send us a head in the first place,” Sam is saying as they turn off the dusty drive the bunker is situated on.

Dean lifts his hands off the wheel in an approximation of a shrug.

“No note, car gone…” he _tsk_ s. “Could have died.”

Sam glares at him.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Me and Charlie started a marathon last night.”

“The quote doesn’t even make sense in context,” Sam grumbles, crossing his arms.

Dean reaches over and pats him sloppily on the shoulder.

“Ah, relax Sam. Just lightening the mood.”

“Ugh, whatever. Anyways, the guy _did_ actually die. That was kind of the point.” He scratches his nose. “I think.”

“Well, the guy was a preacher,” Dean offers. “Maybe it’s a fallen angel pissed off at us who’s not afraid of getting their people-hands dirty… Y’know, thought a religious beard would somehow make more of a point than just a regular one.”

Sam sits back in the seat, face contemplative.

“Yeah, maybe,” he says faintly.

***

They hang out in the parking lot until the night’s service is over, and slip in just as the congregation is saying their parting prayers.

They find themselves talking to the organist, of all people. From the state of her song book and the rapturous look on her face as she plays the congregation out the doors, Sam guesses she’s been around a while, and figures if they need to know any gossip, she’s the one to talk to.

They introduce themselves as hold friends of ‘Greg’s’, and she goes on and on about _Father Hunt_ ; apparently he was incredibly devoted, saintly, generous, kind, everything a Father should be. And yet, there’s something off about it.

“Uh- ma’am,” Sam finally interrupts as it clicks in his head. “Father Hunt came to this church in early 2010, right?”

“Yes,” she nods eagerly, “I remember perfectly because that was around the same time we finally got some yellow tulips for the front gardens…”

Sam nods along as she talks about tulips, waiting for another break in the conversation.

“-And are you aware that he used to be a Minister?” Sam cuts in again when she changes colors. “As in… a Protestant Minister. And not Catholic?”

Dean side-eyes him but says nothing, keeping his ‘polite listening’ face intact.

Margery’s whole stance immediately goes from one of openness to one of extreme discomfort.

“Yes,” she says stiffly, “Yes, I’ve heard rumors.”

“That’s odd, isn’t it?” Sam asks, “Uncommon for a protestant Minister to become involved with a Catholic church?”

“I-” Margery shifts her weight from foot to foot, rubbing the small gold cross that hangs from her neck between her fingers. “It is. But Father Hunt’s circumstances were special. He still loved the church, but claimed Protestantism wasn’t for him anymore. From what I’ve heard- and I’ve heard a lot- he’s never told anyone the reason for the switch.”

Sam nods and thanks Margery for her time, making sure to ask for Hunt’s address, (“I’m sure I would forget my head if it weren’t attached to my shoulders,” he charms, to which Dean supplies a cheerful, “Amen to that.”) and they head back to the Impala, Sam’s mind whirring.

“I’m still thinking angels,” Dean comments, once they’re back in their respective seats. “I mean, they don’t exactly seem to differentiate between Protestant and Catholic, but maybe the switch gave someone enough justification to work out some anger.”

“Angels don’t behead people,” Sam says, as Dean pulls out of the parking lot. “They burn them out.”

“They’re all grounded now, one with the people,” Dean retorts. “When in Rome, right?”

Sam shakes his head.

“I don’t think so.”

Dean rolls his eyes, which Sam notes, isn’t exactly something he should be doing at the wheel. “Well then what do _you_ think did it?”

“It’s gotta be someone who has a grudge against us, or hates us or something-”

“-Yeah, like a boatload of fallen angels-”

“-Shut up, no. It’s more gruesome than that. Maybe some kind of monster. The head looked like it was _pulled_ off. That’s not-”

“-Oh, some kind of monster. Well, that’s super specific. More to the point, Sam, after all this time you’re still questioning the gruesome levels that angels are willing to sink to? Are you kidding me?”

Sam immediately feels his back go up. The whole disillusioned believer thing is still kind of a sore spot for him.

“This has nothing to do with that, Dean,” he says, vying for calm, “I’m _just_ saying, I don’t think it’s an angel.”

“Alright, alright,” Dean surrenders, and they finish the drive to Hunt’s house in quiet.

***

It’s a typically quaint house in a nice neighborhood, cute trim and a nice garden. Very vanilla. There’s even a white picket fence that Dean chuckles at as they walk up the path.

“Those get me every time,” he comments, and Sam’s smile comes off as strained.

When they get to the porch, Dean holds a hand out.

“C’mon, Sam,” he levels, “You’re not still getting your panties in a twist over the stupid fight in the car, are you?”

“On the porch of the dead guy’s house we’re about to break into probably isn’t the best place to discuss it, Dean,” Sam snaps, and picks the lock as Dean keeps an eye out.

Once they’re in the comparatively darkened front hall, door locked behind them, Sam stews for a moment, trying to decide how to broach it.

“You’re never this chipper anymore,” he finally says as they’re searching through the kitchen.

Dean closes a cupboard.

“So this isn’t about the car?” he asks.

“It is,” Sam insists, as Dean continues to paw through drawers without looking up, “It’s about how you’ve been all day.”

“I do not approve of this guy’s cutlery layout,” Dean comments, before checking behind all the appliances on the counter. “And how have I been all day, Sam?”

“ _Chipper_ ,” Sam repeats, like if he says the word again it’ll make more sense. “Or as I like to think of it, deflecting.”

Obviously frustrated, Dean slaps a palm onto the granite countertop.

“What the hell am I supposedly deflecting, Sam?” he asks. “My bottomless well of self-hatred? Or the fact that I spit in your breakfast this morning?”

Sam shoots him a bitchface worthy of a disgruntled cat.

“Let’s check the living room,” he grumbles, and that seems to be the end of that.

***

They methodically make their way through the rest of the house. Once they’re in the bedroom, Dean finds a leather bound journal on the desk. Journals are generally their jackpot in cases like these, and Dean’s fairly optimistic. A guy like Hunt (judging by the rest of his house and how Margery talked about him) seems methodical enough that he probably writes everything down. It’s a fairly thick journal with tiny, cramped writing, so Dean plops down on the side of the perfectly made bed to read. Sam is busy panty sniffing in the guy’s dresser.

Dean starts to flip through the journal, which seems to date back to the beginning of 2009. He deciphers the words slowly, picking up enough of the guy’s handwriting that he can start to skim read. It’s typical journaling of a holy man stuff- lots of ‘I heart god’ and finding strength and fearing damnation, rinse and repeat. From the looks of it, this guy was a true believer. Dean feels even sorrier for the poor decapitated bastard than he already did. Heaven’s best and brightest don’t seem to care about which believers are true, but which own the most land.

When he starts scanning through the entries from autumn of 2009, the tone changes a bit. It turns to talk of angels as actual beings, of demons and duty and finally…

“Oh, fuck,” Dean says. “Sam.”

Sam pops his head out from the guy’s shirt drawer. “Yeah?”

“Listen to this; from Hunt’s journal, dated September 14th, 2009;

 _An angel visited me in a dream last night. I was enjoying a day in a café with scorched wooden tables and fine fish and chips, when an older, balding man sat down across from me. He introduced himself as Zachariah-_ ” Sam makes a strangled noise- “ _Zachariah showed me the way. He touched the back of my hand and I… saw things. He told me of the impending apocalypse and my part to play in it. He told me of the sinners, the unbelievers Dean and Sam Winchester. I am to watch them. Zachariah told me Kansas is their home state, and they’ll be back at some point. I am one of many to become a street crier, preaching the word and searching the crowds for the Winchester brothers. God is watching, Zachariah tells me. God is glad, and God is good. It is all according to the Lord’s plan, and I am eager to prove my faith.”_

Dean tosses the journal onto the bed behind him and buries his face in his hands.

“Street criers,” he mumbles. “ _Fuck_.”

Sam gives him a questioning look.

“When we split up for a while?” Dean reminds him, “And I got flash forwarded into the future by Zachariah? They only got to me because one of those ‘are you rapture ready’ guys saw me in Kansas City.” He groans. “It must have been this guy.”

Sam runs a hand through his hair, and he’s doing that half-not-really smile where it looks like a fishing lure is caught in the corner of his mouth and tugging.

“No wonder he got out of dodge after he found you,” Sam says grimly. “After he played his part, I’m sure the angels had no need for him anymore. He was probably running for his life. Even scared enough to change churches and denominations.”

“And he still went back to church,” Dean says disbelievingly. “It’s fuckin’ ridiculous.”

“This whole thing is fucking ridiculous,” Sam says. “Man, this can’t be a coincidence.”

“Yeah…” Dean scrubs at his chin. “This almost seems like the work of _angels_ or something.”

Sam purses his lips and looks like he’s holding back a mighty eye roll.

“Just say it.”

“Say what?” Dean asks, hand over his heart.

“Just say ‘I told you so’ and get it over with.”

Dean grabs the journal and stands up.

“Nah. I think I’m just gonna leave you in suspense.”

***

“It’s a callback,” Charlie says immediately after they finish filling her in, “A nod to continuity.”

She gets blank looks.

“It reminds the audience that you haven’t forgotten your own canon,” she explains.

More blank looks.

“Ugh okay, look, I’m gonna level with you here. I’m framing this in a narrative context, okay? As if someone’s experiencing the story through watching it on tv or reading it in a book, got it? Good. Because I know you guys don’t like it –especially you, Mr. Complainy Pants- but you guys tend to live your lives through tropes.”

Dean raises his eyebrows as Sam asks, “Tropes?”

Charlie puts a hand over her face for a moment.

“Okay,” she says slowly, so they can keep up, “Tropes are basically devices writers expect audiences to expect. Dig? Cool. For example, you’re both definitely ‘Action Heroes’.” Before either Sam or Dean can complain, Charlie holds up a hand. “It’s a pretty self-explanatory one, guys. You see lots of action.” She points at Sam. “You, Sam? You’re a weird combination of the ‘Black Sheep’ and ‘White Sheep’.” She turns to Dean. “You, sir, are textbook ‘Inferiority Superiority Complex.” She nods, “It’s definitely been interesting, from a character development standpoint.”

Dean smiles sarcastically.

“ _Character development_ ,” he simpers. “Okay.”

Charlie rolls her eyes.

“Look,” she says, “In your narrative? I’m ‘The Chick’. I’m not exactly pleased about it, okay? Hopefully we’ll get some more estrogen up in here soon enough. I’ll have you know, though, that in my own story? I’m ‘The Heroine.’ Just for the record.”

Dean and Sam look like they’re drowning at sea, so Charlie decides to take pity on them.

“Look,” she says, kinder, “All I’m saying is that, based on your history, it’s definitely not a coincidence that you’ve run into this guy before.”

Dean pats her on the shoulder.

“That’s all you needed to say,” he assures her seriously.

***

Their working theory for the next couple days is that it is, in fact, an angel thing. They chip away at various leads, Sam and Dean taking turns reading Hunt’s journal for any more clues.

Dean knows he still has to talk to Cas, and he knows Sam still wants to talk to him. That’s nothing out of the ordinary since they’re generally experts at failing at communication, but it makes him edgy nonetheless. He’s not usually this _aware_ of how much everyone needs to talk to everyone. He thinks his body’s been adapting a new breathing pattern in the last couple years, in which he inhales tension instead of oxygen.

The thing Charlie said about how their lives are lived like a bunch of novels? That thought’s stuck with him longer than he expected it to. He always knew, peripherally, how creepy it was that years of his life and thoughts were written down in paperback, but the way Charlie described it, like it was fucking projection for the next financial quarter or something, really skeeves him out. He’s not a stock to be predicted, but he’s starting to feel like one.

It bothers him as he reads Hunt’s journal. It bothers him as he brushes his teeth. It bothers him as he cooks breakfast for everyone. It bothers him when the doorbell rings _again_.

“Seriously,” Dean says to no one in particular, since it’s fairly early and no one else is awake yet. “We don’t even get the paper.”

He opens the door and groans when he sees what’s laying in front of his slippers.

Sam is going to _love_ this.

***

“So it’s not angels,” Is the first thing Sam says, and Dean wants to step on his foot.

“It would probably be better for us if it was,” Dean says, still trying to be as right as possible, for some completely arbitrary reason.

“You guys know who did this?” Charlie asks, holding her bathrobe tightly around her, looking down at the body. Her face is a little green.

“Oh yeah,” Dean says grimly.

The body dumped on their doorstep this time is a young woman. Her shirt says, ‘The Devil Made Me Do It’.


	2. Demonic Irony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the title of this chapter. it was a joke I just couldn't let go.
> 
> aaaaaaaand part 2/2

The only consolation that Kevin seems to be able to give to himself these days is the fact that no one expects him to actually stab anything.

Way back when, when his hair was too long and he fully expected to be churned through the plaid machine like every other hunter seems to be, he figured washing blood off his hands would just become a regular _thing_ for him. Luckily though, any skirmishes he’s found himself in he’s managed to escape via being really really smart. It’s a small point of pride, really, but Kevin spends his days reading ancient tablets that make his brain hurt and playing video games, so any point of pride is a worthy one.

However, this relative sidelining very rarely prepares Kevin for things like severed heads and bodies deposited on doorsteps. (Seeing Crowley snap Channing’s neck is still one of the most popular recurring scenes in his nightmares, along with his finger getting cut off and his roundtable with the other potential prophets.)

The severed head was different. It was so beyond any kind of normalcy that Kevin could pretend it was a waxy prop, a paper mache Halloween decoration.

But an actual _body_? That used to be a living person? Kevin has an issue with that. Kevin has _many_ issues with that, and they make themselves known as he sprints to the washroom and vomits into the toilet.

People joke about his generation being desensitized, but he long ago decided it wasn’t something to joke about. He’s half afraid it’s going to happen to him, and half just wants his brain to get over it already, because he knows he’s in this for the long haul, whether he wants to be or not.

He tries to spit the last of the bad taste out of his mouth, and flushes the toilet. He splashes his face with water from the sink and tries to wash his mouth out, before plopping down onto the edge of the bathtub. It’s here that Sam finds him, a couple minutes later.

“Hey,” Sam says quietly, leaning against the doorframe.

Kevin bows his head in an approximation of a nod.

“Hi.”

“Sorry that you had to see that back there… and also the head.”

Kevin musters up a smile, even though no one’s buying it.

“I’ve seen worse.”

Sam’s eyes go sympathetic.

“Yeah, but not on your own doorstep. You’re safe here, Kevin. We all want you to know that.”

“But I’m not, actually, am I?” Kevin lifts his head slowly, making sure to look Sam dead in the eye. “I’m not safe here because I’m not safe anywhere. Saf _er_ here, maybe. But not safe.”

Sam sighs.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Yeah, you’re right. It sucks, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s only kind of your fault,” Kevin waves him off diplomatically, in what he feels is an incredibly charitable assessment. “You didn’t strike me with divine wrath in the middle of cello practise, at least.”

Sam smiles sadly.

“Maybe you just shouldn’t answer the door anymore.”

“I didn’t answer the door in the first place. Didn’t stop the body from getting dumped there.”

“Point taken.”

***

Sam files back into the lab, Kevin-less. Dean’s not really surprised, and hopes he went back to bed or is currently doing something, anything enjoyable.

“We oughta buy that kid a dog or something,” Dean comments as Sam walks round to stand opposite him, the slab between them. The dead girl’s body is laid out on it.

“I don’t know if they sell, ‘sorry we ruined your life’ dogs,” Sam says, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. “Maybe we try hallmark first.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, well, with the amount of lives we’ve ruined, we’d keep hallmark in business, at least.”

Silence falls between them for a couple moments as they both stare down at the girl on the table. She’s probably in her late twenties, so really, not a girl anymore. She’s not much younger than Dean, and that affects him more than he wishes it did. He has a habit of viewing even fully grown adults as children, and isn’t blind enough to realize this whole issue didn’t begin when he was told to carry his six month old brother out of a house fire. Everyone wants to protect kids, and Dean wants to protect everyone. It’s unfortunate, but unavoidable.

Not to mention this death is completely on them. The pin up on Abaddon’s shirt practically sneers at them from the girl’s chest, and Dean feels incredibly dirty.

“This feels wrong,” Dean says quietly, worrying the edges of his own gloves. “It’s not really different from a morgue table, but it _is_.”

It’s a fair bet this girl is missing just like Hunt was. She’ll have family and friends looking for her. At least when him and Sam show up to morgues under the guise of federal agents, the responsibility of the physical body has been taken out of their hands. They get to trust the coroners and medical examiners have already dealt with and preserved the body properly. Sam and Dean’s preservation skills are rudimentary at best—after all, Dean knows Sam drove around with his body until it stunk up the car after the hellhounds got him.

Doing things unofficially is rarely an issue for them, let alone a _moral_ issue. But the fact that they’re the last known location of this woman, that no one else knows they’ll be examining her, that she doesn’t have a tag attached to her big toe that reads, ‘Jane Doe’; Dean feels like he’s violating her, and from the look on Sam’s face, he feels the same way.

Not to mention there’s been a dead body dumped at their _doorstep_.

“It’s just-” Sam presses his fingers into the side of the table, veins in his forearms protruding. “We just need to figure out where to dump her.”

Dean turns away from the table.

“Yeah. Yeah let’s just- I don’t know, that abandoned movie theatre in town? We could sit at that all night diner across the street and make sure the cops find her.”

Sam checks his watch.

“It’s 8:45 right now. Assuming we wait till tonight, and depending on how long she’s been dead, it’s probably going to start smelling in here.”

Dean shrugs.

“I’ll clean it up.”

This is their cue to leave, but neither of them seem too keen to actually make their exit.

“We deal with dead bodies all the time,” Dean says. “We’ve killed warehouses of demons, for christ’s sake.” He wipes a hand over his cheek. “It feels different,” he says again.

“She wasn’t a vessel,” Sam says, “As far as we can tell, she was just a bystander who got in the way.” He looks down at the body, face impassive. “And this isn’t neutral ground. This is _our_ place.”

Dean chuffs, even though it’s not funny.

“It’s pretty sad that it takes a dead body on our doorstep for us to see any kind of perspective. We’re basically serial killers.”

“Serial killers who kill other serial killers.”

“Yeah, well, I hate _Dexter_.”

Sam’s mouth quirks at that, though not for long.

“Let’s go,” he says quietly.

They snap off the light as they file out, leaving the body in darkness.

***

“Charlie!”

Charlie, lost in her laptop and therefore unaware that Sam and Dean have just entered the library, jumps.

“Yeesh, Dean, what?”

“Any chance you can rig up a demonic omens tracker on your laptop?”

Charlie scoffs.

“You guys are so two weeks ago,” she smirks, turning the laptop around for Sam and Dean to see. She’s running the algorithm right now over top a map of the United States, various colors and brightness indicating level of potential demonic activity. “Abaddon, right?” she double checks, a little more sober. They nod, and Charlie bites the inside of her cheek for a moment.

“Well,” she continues, trying to shake off the image of the body on the doorstep, “According to what you guys told me, Abaddon’s a fan of, uh, sort of brute force. She’s your typical biblical fire and brimstone type, right? So I figured she’d be classic Big Bad material, which leads me to believe she’ll be where the most chaos is. Based on my handy dandy demon tracker, Abaddon is most likely still in Kansas.”

She was originally planning for a dramatic pause at the end of her last sentence, but figures the mood is a little too dampened right now to go too overboard on the levity.

Dean looks up to the ceiling, every move speaking of exhaustion, not quite rolling his eyes. Charlie doubts it’s because he’s appealing to a higher power; she can definitely share the sentiment. She was never especially religious but it doesn’t change the fact she’s become more than a little disillusioned. Bodies on doorsteps only add to the feeling of circling the drain of cosmic unimportance.

“Where?” he asks, even though it’s hardly a question.

“In the days before the girl on the doorstep, we’ve got missing people in Phillipsburg, Beloit, Concordia, and Marysville.”

“Wait-” Sam cuts in, brows furrowed, “That’s basically a straight line. It’s almost like she’s-”

“Circling you,” Charlie finishes for him, “Yeah, I figured as much. On that hunch, I checked the missing persons for southern Nebraska and it’s the same thing. She’s been circling you guys for days. Like a vulture.”

“Awesome.”

“But _why_?” Sam asks, and Charlie looks at him like he’s an idiot.

“What do you mean, ‘why’? You guys told me yourself, she’s just destructive on like, an instinctual level. She’d need vessels too, right? For her demon buddies? So that’s probably the deal with all the missing people.”

“She seemed pretty interested in Crowley as well,” Sam suddenly recalls, with dawning realization. “I mean, I was tossed through a window at the beginning of the conversation, but I think I got the gist. She wants to rule hell and Crowley’s the only thing standing in her way.”

“So why don’t we just give him to her?” A new voice interrupts, “Or, hell, just kill him ourselves.”

They turn to find Kevin standing at the end of the table, obviously not a happy camper.

Charlie doesn’t know much about Kevin, but she knows Crowley either killed his mother or has her imprisoned somewhere. For a skinny kid, he can work up some pretty intimidating (and justified, judging by what Dean’s told her) rage.

“I mean,” Kevin continues, speaking like he’s the only person in the room talking sense, “Don’t you think, as the new leader of hell, Abaddon would be a lot more worried about consolidating power down there as opposed to topside?  She wouldn’t have time for earth; she’d be too busy setting things up downstairs. We give her Crowley, she takes off for a couple hundred years to sit on a throne. Win-win, right?” he spreads his hands, like he’s inviting praise for his brilliant suggestion. Charlie actually thinks it’s a pretty good idea, but keeps her mouth shut. “After we get the truth from him about my mom,” he adds bitterly after a moment.

“Kevin,” Dean sighs, like they’ve had this conversation before. Maybe they have. “We need Crowley. He’s our leverage, and our source for all things black eyed. We can’t just give him away- especially not to Abaddon.”

“’All things black eyed’?” Kevin quotes, laughing. “Right. What makes you think Crowley is gonna tell you anything?”

“What makes you think he’s gonna tell you where you mom is?” Dean counters, and from the look on his face, he regrets it immediately.

“Fuck you,” Kevin spits, and storms out of the room.

They watch him go in silence for a moment.

“Shit,” Dean mumbles, bringing his fingers up to massage his temples, “I feel like an asshole.”

Sam grimaces in what Charlie assumes to be agreement.

“We haven’t exactly made things easy for him,” Sam intercedes gently, “I mean, look at all he’s lost. All the crap that’s happened to him since the prophet stuff started.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Dean snaps. “We make everyone’s lives miserable, Sam. That’s like, Winchester guarantee number one,” he adopts a falsely cheery voice, “’If you’re friends with us, your life is gonna suck!’”

“Um,” Charlie raises her hand meekly, “Friend of the Winchesters sitting right here.”

Dean visibly deflates, and points miserably in the direction Kevin went.

“Well, there’s your future, Charlie. Take note.”

Charlie closes her laptop with as much dignity as she can muster, placing it on the table and standing up.

“Look,” she says, “I don’t have a whole lot in the way of family anymore, and you guys are about as close as it gets, okay?” She looks at Dean pointedly. “You’re stuck with me. You’re gonna have to deal with it.” She makes sure to head in the opposite direction as Kevin for symbolism’s sake, even though she actually kind of wants a snack, and the kitchen is that way. “I’m going to take a walk, or pet a cool dog or something. Let things cool off in here a bit,” she points at the laptop, “Password is ‘leviosa’, if you want to fiddle with the demon tracker some more. Stay out of my bookmarks and don’t go through my search history.”

She exits the bunker feeling vaguely accomplished, but the crackle of the tarp that’s covering the blood stain under her feet drains it out of her without hesitation.

***

Dean’s half looking for his misplaced phone and half looking for Cas, and he finds both in the Impala out front. She should be in the garage, but she’s sitting outside because he has to head into town to buy tarp before they dump the body tonight.

Cas is sitting in the backseat with the window down, staring straight ahead. His posture is stiff and he looks like he’s trying to burn a hole in the back of the front seat with his stare alone.

Dean walks up to the door and leans both forearms on the rolled down window.

“Communing with nature?” he asks, and Cas breaks his eye contact with the seat to initiate it with Dean.

“An experiment,” Cas replies, sounding like his mind is a million miles away.

“Ah.” Dean taps the roof of the car fondly, “I did my fair share of experimenting in here. I get it.”

He realizes he’s done the thing where he speaks before his brain can catch up with his mouth, and tries to ignore how sleazy that probably sounded.

“It feels so different being inside and outside now,” Cas says quietly, obviously not catching or caring about Dean’s faux-pas. “Before, it didn’t really matter, since I basically lived across dimensions. Now, though, I’m either inside or outside. Or, in this case,” he gestures at the car around him and reaches out of the window to rest his palm on the warm metal body of the Impala, just a couple inches from Dean’s thigh, “inside outside.”

Dean nods in understanding, or as close as he’ll come to understanding what existing across dimensions means.

“That’s the great thing about Baby, here,” he explains, like he’s imparting some great wisdom upon Cas. “Complete freedom across all dimensions.”

“I can almost believe that,” Cas murmurs, running his index finger down the slim edge of the window. He smiles one of those private Cas smiles, a barely there thing, but a hint, at least.

“How’re you doin, man?” Dean asks softly, squinting like he’s looking into the sun, even though it’s not terribly bright outside today. It’s amazing, he thinks idly; the lengths he’ll go to so he can avoid full on adult discussions about feelings.

He feels like he’s asked Cas this question practically every day since that first, “how are you” at the bus station, and instead of the “I’m fine’s” getting more sincere, they seem to be doing the exact opposite. It’s not like Cas doesn’t have a laundry list of things _not to_ be fine about. It’s just that, even though he basically lives with them now, he never sticks around long enough for anyone to get any real answers out of him. Dean feels like he’s hardly seen his best friend at all, even though this is the closest they’ve physically been for the longest amount of time since… well, forever. Cas never made it a habit to hang around for extended periods of time when he had the mojo to up and away whenever duty called, or whenever he felt like it. (Or whenever he didn’t feel like answering for something, which is a whole other can of worms.)

Like every other damn time he asks, Cas replies with, “I’m fine,” and Dean tries not to take him by the shoulders and scream that _of course_ he’s not fine. _Of course_ he’s not okay. You don’t just get forced to change species and walk away from that.

But instead, he just nods and says, “Good, good.” Because that’s how they’ve survived this long. On those nights Dean still hits the bottle too hard, he often wonders if the reality of his entire existence ever crashed down on him, just how fast would he suffocate. Plus one for repressed memories, at least.

“I have to head into town to get some tarp for tonight,” Dean continues, leaning his hip against the car, “You wanna ride shotgun or…?”

Cas shakes his head and opens the door, forcing Dean to move back a couple steps.

“It’s alright. I’ll stay here,” he says as he climbs out of the car.

Cas starts back towards the bunker, dirt crunching under his feet, and even after all this time, Dean still thinks he looks like a stranger without his trench coat. He supposes it’s stupid, really, since humans don’t wear the same thing every day, and he should never have applied any different standards to Cas. But he did, because Cas wasn’t human. 

He’s human now, though, and Dean’s going to have to start recalculating said standards.

Which might be why he calls out after Cas, weak as it is.

“Cas,” he says, and hates how uncertain he sounds- _is_. Cas turns around, face closed off, and Dean wonders if it’s that’s remnants of Cas the angel or just who Cas the human _is_.

“Are we-” he gestures between them, and as far as gestures go, it’s a pretty pathetic one, “Are we okay?”

There’s a pause between Dean’s question and Cas’, “Yeah, we’re fine,” that speaks volumes. They aren’t fine. They haven’t been fine for years, because they don’t know how to talk shit through like normal people. They haven’t been fine since Cas pulled him from hell almost eight years ago, haven’t been fine since Cas couldn’t find god, since the he beat up a half-suicidal Dean in a secluded alleyway, since Dean refused to listen and Cas forgot that free will actually has consequences. They haven’t been fine since Cas died, (one, two, three times, Dean’s lost track) since Dean spent months trying to drown himself in alcohol, since Purgatory and the crypt where he got the hell beat out of him _again_.

They aren’t fine, and probably never will be.

But Dean says, “good,” again, smile flickering like a dying light bulb, and turns his back on Cas before Cas can turn his back on him.

***

“This is gonna sound horrible, but it’s easier when it’s someone we don’t know,” Sam says later that night, as they nurse lukewarm coffee at the all night diner. The police haven’t shown up across the street yet, but it’s only a matter of time. “I don’t wanna have to lose any more friends.”

Dean nods noncommittally, pouring cream into his coffee even though he generally drinks it black. He stares at the whorls of white as they seep into the dregs of black, and can’t help but see it as the cream poisoning the rest of the cup. Infecting it, like a toxin. He stirs it in, wanting to get the image out of his mind, but once the two are mixed, it’s even worse because now they’re inextricably linked. It’s soiled the entire cup and it’s all going to end up in the garbage anyways.

Sick of himself, Dean shoves the cup away, sloshing it over the sides and onto the table. Sam’s watching him, eyebrow raised, but doesn’t comment.

From down the block, Dean can see red and blue lights flashing, and practically jumps out of his chair, completely ignoring how it would look if he practically ran out of a diner just as a couple cop cars pull up across the street- they’re the only patrons in the diner anyways, with the lone waitress taking an incredibly long smoke break out back.

“Thank fuck,” he mutters, leaving a couple ones for the coffees and tips. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

***

“We got a letter,” Dean announces the next morning as he walks into the kitchen, “Hope it’s an invitation to a birthday party.”

Sam, leaning against the counter, watches the proceedings over the rim of his coffee cup, silently thanking the fact that his ribs aren’t protesting anymore when he lifts a mug. He’s still most definitely in recovery, but he’s slowly starting to feel like a real person again.

He thinks the jogging has helped a little. Also the yoga. It’s all in the early stages, but they’re the kind of activates that have the benefits of both centering him and strengthening his body, and even though it’s definitely too soon to be seeing results, he thinks the psychological effects alone are enough to keep him at it.

Cas, Kevin, and Charlie are slumped around the table, bleary eyed and cupping their own coffee. They all look like they’ve had a rough night.

“Ah,” Dean says as he scans the contents of the letter. “It’s an invitation, alright. Just not the kind I was hoping for.”

He passes it to Sam, who immediately grimaces. There’s a set of coordinates, and some annoyingly elegant handwriting that informs them when and where to meet Abaddon.

“It’s a party of sorts,” he says wryly, before passing it off to Charlie who’s making a grabby hands motion.

“Damn,” she says as she finishes reading it. She puts it back on the table, where Cas picks it up and examines it curiously.

“Well, at least we can finally settle this,” Charlie says morosely, standing up and moving to leave the kitchen.

“Uh, ‘scuse me?” Dean asks, grabbing onto the housecoat synch that’s trailing behind her. “‘ _We_ ’?”

Charlie turns around, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, _dad_ ,” she says, “I’m coming with.”

“No, no, no, no, no, no,” Dean says, looking to Sam like he’s begging him to tell Charlie how ridiculous she sounds.

Sam, however, doesn’t intervene, leaving Dean to sputter on his own.

“Charlie, you’re basically a civilian, you can’t just”-

“I’vebeenhunting,” she interrupts in a rush, and Dean drops her synch in surprise.

“You’ve been _what now_?”

Charlie waves it off, though Sam can tell she’s nervous.

“Oh, y’know, an angry spirit here, a poltergeist there. Nothing too hefty.”

“I…” Every once in a while, Dean goes into serious dad-mode, which is both endearing and incredibly annoying. Sam is both amused and relived to not be on the receiving end of it this time. “You could have gotten yourself killed!”

Charlie shrugs, obviously ready to defend her position.

“So could you,” she fires back, “And don’t even start on that ‘it’s all I know’ crap. I just need you to suck it up and accept it, okay? Plus I wanna meet the raging jerk who just dumps dead bodies on doorsteps.”

Dean looks equal parts flabbergasted and consternated, and Sam tries not to snort. Instead, he inclines his head to Charlie, who winks back at him.

“You know how to shoot a gun?” he asks her.

“You bet,” she replies, “And lemme tell you, it’s really not like it is in the movies.”

“Oh, great, she knows it’s not like the movies,” Dean says mock-whimsically, still seeming a little baffled.

“Okay,” Charlie says, obviously satisfied, “Now that that’s settled, when are we leaving?”

***

Dean’s in his room, filling a duffel bag with things for the meet with Abaddon.

“You know it’s a trap,” comes Cas’ voice from the doorway.

“Obviously,” Dean says, tossing the last flask of holy water in. He straightens up and turns around to face Cas. “We’ve walked into worse.”

“You have,” Cas allows, and without further preamble, “I’m coming.”

Dean does a double take.

“You’re what?”

“Coming. To the meet with you.”

“Uh. No you’re not.”

Cas narrows his eyes.

“Why not?”

Dean scrubs a hand over his jaw, knowing that this isn’t going to be an easy talk, but a necessary one.

“Look, man,” he starts, trying to be as non-confrontational as possible about it, “You’re not okay.”

“ _You’re_ not okay,” Cas counters, and alright, point. Dean scratches the back of his neck.

“The difference, though, is that I’m used to not being okay,” Dean says, “It doesn’t get in the way of the job because it’s just who I am. But you,” he gestures to Cas, “You’re not alright, not by a long shot. I hardly see you anymore, you barely eat, you barely speak, it’s like you’re a ghost, Cas. You’re not hunting material.”

“I just fell from heaven, Dean, of course I’m a little upset.”

“‘A little upset’? Spilling holy water in the trunk is a little upset. Stubbing your toe is a little upset. Having your essence stolen from you and then being cast out of heaven is a little more upsetting than a _little_.”

“Well, great,” Cas says, striding into the room and picking up a shotgun from the duffel, “This will be an excellent way to take out my frustrations.” He handles the gun carefully, meticulously, and a quiet little voice in Dean’s brain asks him if he’s keeping Cas from the hunt for Cas’ sake, or for his own.

Squashing that voice, Dean grabs the gun from Cas, mindful that it’s loaded and he doesn’t feel like getting blasted by rocksalt at point blank range today.

“No,” Dean says, the final word on the matter. “You need to get better first, Cas.”

They’re standing too close now, and with the steel in Cas’ eyes, Dean’s almost expecting him to throw a punch. Instead, he takes a step back, anger evident in every line of his face and the taut set of his shoulders; Dean hasn’t seen him stand that straight since he was an angel.

“I am not glass, Dean,” he says, dangerously quiet, “I’m not going to shatter.”

“You’re right,” Dean says, zipping up the bag, “Because you won’t get the chance to. You’re not coming.” He shoulders the duffel, looking at Cas and waiting for him to sweep off like he normally does. Dean knows, knows it like a farmer knows when a rainstorm is coming, that if Cas were still mojo’d up he’d have already taken off by now. He can practically see the fury in Cas’ face at his inability to flap off to god knows where. He’d gotten pretty good at gauging when Cas’ confrontation tolerance ran out, often knew when he’d disappear a second before he actually did. Anything in the realm of emotional insecurity and Cas was off, and in his more charitable moments, Dean was big enough to acknowledge that if he had wings, he’d probably ditch half the conversations he found himself in as well.

Of course, if Cas were still an angel they wouldn’t be having this discussion anyway.

Cas does leave, quiet and unassuming, and it’s the last time Dean sees him before they head to the meet.

“Well, fuck me,” he mumbles as he heads through the library, “This is what it feels like.”

Being the one to leave doesn’t feel much better than being the one left behind, if he’s honest.

***

“Cas didn’t want to come?” Charlie asks from the backseat of the Impala as they pull away from the bunker, “He seemed pretty convinced this morning.”

Dean debates lying, but can’t stomach the thought of it coming back to bite him in the ass at a later date.

“He wanted to,” Dean says, “But I said no.”

“What?” Charlie and Sam exclaim at the same time, and Dean rolls his eyes, trying not to feel defensive.

“He’s been a human for like five minutes, okay? He would have gotten himself or one of us hurt.”

“I’ve only being _hunting_ for like five minutes!” Charlie says, making a face at him in the rear view mirror. “Why the hell’d you let me come along?”

Dean almost turns around to argue, but decides against it. It wouldn’t bode well for his argument if he got them all killed before they even got to Abaddon.

“If I had said no, you’d have just hopped into your own car and followed us,” Dean says, quirking a brow at her in the mirror. “Am I right?”

Charlie grudgingly nods, dangerously close to pouting on Cas’ behalf.

“That’s not it,” Sam says from the passenger’s side. He has that tone of voice going when something’s just dawned on him. “You feel responsible for him.” As soon as Dean starts to bluster (because _what_?) Sam immediately hops on it.

“That’s definitely it,” he runs his hands through his hair. “Obviously. I mean, it wasn’t your fault that Cas fell, but you’re Dean Winchester and you shoulder the blame for everything. Of course you now feel responsible for him. You make him food and bring him extra bedsheets and you tiptoe around him like you’re walking on eggshells. You blame yourself but at the same time you’re afraid he’s going to freak out and blame you too.” Dean can feel Sam’s pitying gaze on the side of face, and blindly reaches out a hand to shove him.

“Fuck off. I don’t even know where you get these bullshit-”

“You’re treating him like a pet,” Charlie chimes in, “Or an invalid,” she adds after a moment of thought. “And I don’t know him very well, but I’d say he’s neither.”

“This is his reality now, Dean,” Sam protests, “You can’t just keep him locked up forever.”

“He goes outside!” is Dean’s genius response, and he immediately regrets it, if the smirk on Sam’s face is anything to go by. “He’s not- he’s like, depressed, or something. About falling.”

“Yeah, well, I’d be pretty bummed if I lost my grace too,” Sam says, “That’s like, the equivalent of a soul for an angel, right? Obviously he’s upset.”

“Which is exactly why,” Dean says, hitting the steering wheel for emphasis, “I said no.”

“But also because you feel responsible for him.” Sam tacks on, and Dean rolls his eyes because sometimes it’s easier to let Sam assume his fucking assumptions rather than correct him.

“Okay, now that we’re done feeling each other’s feelings can we talk about how we’re probably going to die tonight?”

***

Naturally, it’s an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.

Isn’t that always the way, Charlie thinks wryly as they park.

“Seems clear,” Sam says, binoculars practically glued to his face. “I can’t see any movement inside.”

“Yeah, Sam, that’s cause it’s a surprise party,” Dean rolls his eyes, “As soon as we walk in everyone’s going to jump out and shout ‘surprise!’ and also slit our throats.”

Sam grimaces, and then does a double take.

“Hey,” he says, passing the binoculars to Dean and pointing, “Over there,”

Charlie squints, and can just make out the shadow of what looks like a woman darting across the lawn, and then disappearing around the side of the house.

“You think that’s one of Abaddon’s?” Dean asks.

“Who else would it be?” Sam asks. “Though I dunno why she’d have her demons running around like that.”

“We’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure.” Dean looks back at Charlie, “You ready?” At her nod, they exit the car and crowd around the trunk. Dean hands everyone their respective weapons, and they start towards the house.

***

Kevin’s wandering around the bunker, trying to will away another headache. He’s been getting them more and more frequently since all the tablet nonsense. Since the falling angels fiasco, the demon tablet is basically acting as a glorified paper weight, and yet Kevin still gets the headaches.

What a surprise, the universe acting against him.

He’s not following any specific route, but laughs when he finds himself standing at the door to the gym. Kevin originally found the gym during his first week in the bunker, and one look at the old timey workout machines had been enough to send him scurrying off like the skinny nineteen year old he is. On his list of priorities, building guns doesn’t exactly rank above _saving the world_ and _not dying_. It’s tucked away in the corner of the bunker, and Kevin’s not even sure if Sam and Dean know it’s here yet. He figures Sam, at least, would try to make use of some of this stuff if they knew.

He’s about to keep on walking by when he hears what sounds like someone going to town on the punching bag.

Immediately, he has his back up. He was sure that everyone went to the meet with Abaddon, and the idea of a self-punching punching bag is really freaking him out. Ever so carefully, he peeks around the door, and breathes out a relieved, ‘oh, thank god,” when he sees Castiel on the other side.

Cas, sans shirt, is practically punching the stuffing out of the thing. He looks like he’s been at it for a while, judging by the frankly frightening amount of sweat he’s accumulated. Kevin’s about to make a silent exit and leave him to this business, when Cas looks up and meets his stare.

“Uh… Hey, Cas,” he says, caught in the act.

Cas’ fists slowly fall back to his sides, and to Kevin’s horror, he sees blood dripping from Cas’ knuckles, reddening his shins and staining the floor.

“Hello, Kevin,” Cas replies, mild as ever. He examines his bloodied hands apathetically.

Kevin gawks and Cas just _stands_ there, like there’s nothing wrong.

“Are you, uh, okay?” Kevin finally ventures. “You’re kind of… bleeding all over the place.”

Cas examines his hand.

“I am,” he confirms.

“I don’t really know much about… punching,” he says, gesturing to the bag, “but I’m pretty sure you need to wrap your hands with tape or something. To protect yourself from that,” he continues, nodding at Cas’ hands.

“Thank you for the suggestion, Kevin.”

It’s as much a dismissal as any, but Kevin hesitates on his way out.

“I thought you were going with the others?” he asks, “To meet Abaddon?”

“I have been deemed, I believe the phrase is, ‘unfit for duty’.” Cas explains, and well, that explains why he keeps looking like he wants to knock the punching bag into next week. Kevin’s been around Sam and Dean long enough to understand that in their culture, if you can’t hunt, you aren’t anything.  Kevin recalls similar feelings of inadequacy during his old life, where he practiced cello for hours every week and had every minute of every day planned into study periods, and still didn’t feel good enough. He remembers the sick feeling he got in his stomach every time he thought about getting into (or getting rejected from) Princeton.

Kevin’s never been great with pep talks, and he still doesn’t know Cas very well, but he figures he’ll give it a go.

“I know the feeling,” he says, “I mean, not the fallen from grace thing, but I know what it’s like to feel like you aren’t good enough. Once upon a time, I used to have to breathe in paper bags- usually more than once per day- because I’d start freaking out about my future.”

“And now your future is murky at best, and your lifespan has probably been cut in half due to forces beyond your control,” Cas surmises, obviously not in the mood to be pep talked.

“Well, yeah, but…” There’s not really a _but_ , here. Kevin got the short end of the stick and he knows it. Most of the time, he doesn’t even bother making the best of it. He’s beyond pissed at the hand life dealt him, and he’ll never forget the fact that Channing is dead and his mom is either dead or imprisoned. Sometimes he just wants to wants to scream at the unfairness of it all.

“Sometimes being alive just has to be enough,” he comes up with, and it even sounds pathetic to his own ears. He can’t imagine how Cas is going to digest it.

To his very great surprise, Cas actually cracks a smile at that. Granted, it’s microscopic, but Kevin’ll count anything as a win.

“You know,” Cas says contemplatively, “I’ve died many times. I’ve come back many times. Sometimes I forget that ‘being alive’ is generally considered a good thing.”

So Cas is only into pep talks he can give himself. Kevin can work with that.

“Thank you, Kevin,” he says, more kindly this time. “I’ll try to remember that.”

“I’m mad, too,” Kevin feels some strange need to clarify. “I’m kind of really mad all the time. It’s ridiculous that we have to define our happiness by virtue of us not being dead, but I guess it’s all relative, huh?”

Cas stares at his knuckles.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “I guess it is.”

***

They decide to forgo the splitting up, since Dean’s nervous about Charlie not having all the backup she can use.

The front door is open, and Dean makes sure to get nods of confirmation from both Sam and Charlie before opening it as quietly as he can. It opens surprisingly quietly for its age and level of upkeep, and for that Dean’s grateful. He nods Sam and Charlie in ahead of him, and follows up the rear. They’re just about to clear the kitchen, when a voice calls to them from the living room.

“Winchesters and other!”

They freeze, and Dean shakes his head in resignation.

It appears they have walked into a trap.

“Abaddon,” he greets smoothly, walking into the room. Sam and Charlie follow.

Abaddon takes her time, looking all three of them up and down. She’s standing in front of the fireplace that probably hasn’t been used in decades. She smiles widely.

“Glad you came. You should know, though,” she informs them, almost sounding disinterested, “I have some friends here as well. They caught your little runner the minute she ‘snuck’ in the back door.”

Dean and Sam share an equally confused glance.

“Our… runner?” Sam asks.

Abaddon looks into what Dean assumes is the dining room, and inclines her head.

“Bring the girl in.”

Two burly demons enter the room, holding a slim, dark haired woman between them. She’s not struggling, but she seems to be the embodiment of the phrase, _if looks could kill_.

It’s the woman they saw running across the yard.

“Okay…” Dean says slowly, playing along, as Abaddon looks on, “I think we got our signals a little crossed here. Just give us our, uh, runner, back. She didn’t mean any harm, did you?” He looks at her, trying to will her to play along with his own playing along.  

“Yeah,” the girl says, though she’s basically the least convincing actress Dean’s ever seen. “I’m with the Winchesters and Red over here. We just got… separated. Or something.” For some reason, she seems to direct a little bit of stink eye in Sam’s direction.

Abaddon raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t seem to care enough to pursue it. She nods at the demons, who release her. The girl stands halfway between the demons and Sam, hovering awkwardly.

“I don’t really care, to be honest,” Abaddon admits idly. “I’m just here to talk. To you two,” she looks at Sam and Dean.

Sam looks rather taken aback.

“You just want… to talk?” he clarifies. “You don’t really seem like the talking type.”

Dean slowly turns his gaze onto Sam, trying to communicate without words the fact that he should probably shut up _right now_.

Abaddon, however, just tosses her hair over her shoulders and laughs.

“I wondered how much of my little spat you saw with Crowley in that church. It’s been brought to my attention that, while brute force is always an excellent option, sometimes negotiation is the better way to go.”

“You want to _negotiate_ with us?” Dean asks disbelievingly.

“You bet, sunshines,” she says with relish, “Shall we get down to business?”

***

In retrospect, duct tape probably wasn’t the best thing to put over Cas’ bruised and battered knuckles. It stretches awkwardly around his hands as he tries to hold a Playstation controller, and Kevin often laughs whenever he accidentally launches his avatar into imminent death. But neither of them know how to really patch up bloody knuckles, and he wanted to look at them as little as possible. Actually thinking about them will just make him angry again.

“People actually play video games for fun?” Cas asks, wild eyed, as he once again falls into a pit of lava.

“A stressful kind of fun, sure,” Kevin says, “But if it makes you feel any better, Dean’s even worse than you. He played for five minutes, like, once, and then claimed it the work of the devil and stormed out of the room.”

 “I think I agree with him more than you at the moment,” Cas says, ignoring the painful sting of pulling skin under the tape.

“It takes a while to get used to,” Kevin assures him as his avatar does what looks like an extremely complicated move, earning a large number of points. “Don’t sweat it.” Pixelated confetti rains down on the screen as Cas and Kevin finish the level, Cas barely keeping up.

“This is incredibly frustrating,” Cas says, despite the fact that he finds himself inexplicably drawn to the idea of completing the next level, and then the next one, and then the next one…

“Controls on all new games take some time,” Kevin explains, eyes focused on the screen. “It’s all about the learning curve and relearning the basics. Like, for example, in the last game I played-” he picks up a case sitting on the couch beside him and holds it up for Cas’ inspection, all the while furiously pounding buttons on his controller, “Triangle was jump. In this one here, X is jump. So when I started playing this, half the time I’m pressing triangle instead of X,” he looks over at Cas, who’s just fallen into another spike pit, “You get me?”

“Yes,” Cas growls, straining to get his avatar to just move in the right direction, for once, “X is jump. Got it.”

Kevin rolls his eyes.

“Alright, alright, just don’t beat yourself up, okay?”

Cas grunts non-committedly and thinks he might have to revisit the punching bag if _Little Big Planet_ keeps foiling his attempts at jumping.

***

“You want _Crowley_?” Dean feels the need to clarify, aghast. He probably owes Kevin some money or something.

Abaddon shrugs.

“It’s simple, isn’t it? Politicians run smear campaigns, demons do a different kind of smearing. I think Crowley’s intestines would add a certain spice to my throne room. Besides, I need to consolidate my power as soon as possible.”

Dean runs a hand over his forehead, sliding his gaze over to Sam. They have a silent conversation, in which Sam basically tells him to hurry up and answer the person liable to rip their eyeballs out should she get bored.

“Why?” Dean asks, feigning bravado, “Afraid Crowley’s got the popular vote?”

The corner of Abaddon’s mouth twitches.

“Look,” she practically spits, “I’m not going to let hell fall back into… eugh, _democratic_ hands ever again. Hell doesn’t get Obamacare.”

“Why do you need to consolidate power ‘as soon as possible’?” Sam asks, crossing his arms.

Abaddon does a double take.

“Things are afoot, boys,” she says slowly, “You know that… don’t you?”

At their twin, stunned glances, she barks laughter, having to grab the mantel for support.

“Oh, dear,” she simpers, wiping her eyes, “Well isn’t that unfortunate for you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean snaps, and that just seems to amuse her even more.

“It’s certainly not _my_ place to tell you,” she laughs again, “Alright, forget Crowley. You’re of no use to me if you don’t know. However,” she inclines her head at her henchmen, who encroach menacingly, “Your ignorance tickles me, and I think I might hang around to watch. Knock em around a bit, boys,” she orders, before the demons advance.

In the split second before the attack, Dean makes eye contact with Charlie, whose face seems to have lost all color. He tries to give her an, “I’ve got your back” look, but it’s kind of hard when he’s also digging through layers of fabric to get at his knife. There’s three of them and five demons; not impossible odds, but not great ones, either.

The first one, in a classically dumb demon move, lunges ahead of his buddies, making him easy prey. Dean stabs him straight through the throat and he fizzles out, easy peasy. The remaining four start to circle around them, and Dean barely has time to hope the civilian- whoever she was- got out, before they all attack together.

There’s a shout, he hears Sam and Charlie’s guns go off, and he starts to grapple with his own demon. The vessel isn’t much taller than him, and not as broad, so they’re fairly evenly matched. Dean manages to dig an elbow in the demon’s rib cage and drives him back into the wall. The demon ducks under his next swing, and gets him in the stomach, winding him. Trying to catch his breath back, Dean pins the demon to the wall with his shoulder, thrusting the blade up and into his chest. His eyes light up orange, and he slumps to the ground.

Charlie and Sam are fighting side by side, Sam with two and Charlie with one. Dean has faith Sam can hold them off long enough for him to get to Charlie, and sprints forward to pull the (actually quite large) demon off her. Shots are still ringing out and smoke is all over the room accompanied by shrieks of pain, so Dean assumes the bullets are hitting their targets. He grabs the big guy by the neck, and, obviously underestimating his strength, he gets flung halfway across the room and breaks a coffee table in the process. The knife flies off somewhere out of his reach, and Charlie’s demon follows him, even though Dean watches Charlie blast the back of his head with rocksalt.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he’s scrambling backwards, trying to push himself up to get some semblance of a chance to fight back. He’s searching frantically for a big enough chunk of table to use as a weapon when someone stabs the demon from behind. Based on the way they spark and pop, the person used Ruby’s knife. But if Sam’s currently over there getting the crap beaten out of him by demons, and Charlie’s standing over there, that only leaves…

The demon keels over, and Dean’s staring at the civilian who somehow got mixed up in all this. She’s got a ferocious glint in her eye, and Ruby’s knife clutched in her left hand. Her light brown forearms and plaid shirt are covered in blood spatter, and she holds out a hand to Dean.

Without thinking about it, Dean takes it, and she yanks him up. They move to where Sam’s still scuffling, and she drives the knife into the fourth demon’s back, before tossing it to Dean, who fumbles with it for a moment before disposing of the last demon in the same way.

Sam still has gun pointed, which means he’s still capable of holding and therefore isn’t dead. Dean does a mental brow swipe before looking to Charlie.

“You alright Charlie?”

A faint, “roger that,” and Dean, again, breathes easier.

He looks at the new addition to their demon killing squad.

“I’m going to guess you’re not actually a civilian,” Dean surmises, brow raised, “Since you’re certainly not our ‘runner’, and you sure as hell know how to handle a demon killing knife.”

The girl nods, though the anger hasn’t dimmed from her gaze. It looks like she’s chewing gum with the way her jaw keeps working, and she’s side eyeing Sam with the kind of dislike generally not aimed at the guy you just killed demons with.

“You’re the Winchesters,” she says flatly, obviously not impressed.

“Yeah. I’m Dean, that’s Sam.”

“And I’m Charlie.”

“And that’s Charlie,” Dean adds, though the girl doesn’t even bother glancing her way.

“I know who you are,” she says again, in that same, flat tone. Then, to Sam, “You’re the reason my family is dead.”

Sam’s eyes go wide.

“Wh- what?” he stammers, looking like someone kicked a puppy.

“I assume you’re the Sam Winchester that let Lucifer out the Cage?” She asks, and Sam goes immediately shamefaced. “Yeah, well, the demon that killed my parents? Was _celebrating_.”

There’s an awkward silence for a moment, where everyone shuffles uncomfortably.

“I-” Sam starts, but Dean cuts over him.

“It wasn’t all on him, okay? I’m sorry for your parents, I really am. But it was a complicated situation-”

“’Complicated situation’ my ass,” she snarls, before spitting at Sam’s feet, “Fuck you, and fuck your complicated situation.”

“No one’s saying you don’t have a right to be mad,” Dean says carefully, because he _knows_. He knows the toxic rage that can stem from losing a family member, “Look…” he trails off. “Can we at least get your name? I feel a name would do wonders, here.”

“Tracy Bell.” She sets her jaw.

“Okay, good, awesome.” Dean nods, trying to buy himself a little time. After all, it’s kind of hard to defend Sam when Dean’s still not sure he’s worked through all his own feelings on the matter, even more than a half decade later. “The way you took out those demons, though? That’s who you wanna go after. Not some punk ass floppy haired sasquatch. You saved our asses today, Tracy.”

She looks at Dean like she’s sizing him up, contemplative look in her eye. Her jaw is still tight when she nods, but at least it’s not a nod that promises Sam’s imminent death.

“Yeah, I did,” she says, “And you’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” Sam hurriedly chimes in, and Tracy rolls her eyes.

“How’d you end up here, anyway?” Charlie asks from her corner, constitution seemingly regained. “I mean, you didn’t get a letter, did you?”

“A letter?” Tracy repeats, “No. Garth put me on it. When the demons took their hosts, a couple of them didn’t get rid of their cell phones, so I tracked a signal to this area. After that, it was just a matter of browsing through real estate sites to find any houses large enough and remote enough for a group like this.”

“Okay,” Charlie admits, “That’s officially cooler than a letter.”

Tracy grants her a tiny smile.

“I gotta head out,” she says, gaze frosting over again as she returns her eyes to Dean. “My partner’s gonna be freaking out. I probably shouldn’t have taken off in the middle of the night without her.” She turns to go.

“Tracy, wait,” Dean furiously scribbles his cell number down on an old receipt he finds tucked away in his pocket. “If you or anyone you know runs into Abaddon again, give me a call, okay? She’s bad news and, well-” He hesitates.

“- it’s your fault she’s topside?” Tracy guesses.

“Uh, yeah, sort of. Not really, but kind of. Anyways, here,” he hands her the paper, “or even if you ever need backup or whatever, give me a call, okay? We’ll come running.”

Tracy reluctantly stuffs the receipt into her back pocket.

“If this falls out of my pocket, I want you to know that I won’t care,” Tracy assures them as she moves towards what Dean assumes is the back door.

“Hope you have deep pockets, then,” Dean weakly jokes, and Tracy scoffs.

“Bye Winchesters, and Charlie.”

***

Dean is brooding and Sam is slumped and wallowing in a cloud of self-pity the entire ride home. It’s awkward, to say the least. She manages to hold her tongue until they’re parking in the bunker’s garage. As soon as Dean turns the engine off, Charlie starts talking.

“Dean, I was thinking about our conversation earlier…” She taps Sam on the shoulder. “Sam, snap out of it for a sec. This is for you, too.”

They both turn around to look at her, and she does her best to sound like she actually knows what she’s talking about, because she knows both of these boys have skulls thicker than cement and it’ll take a lot of conviction on her part to make them believe any of it.

“This is actually kind of about Cas, too…” she trails off, weighing the options of going to find him in the bunker and dragging him out here as well. She decides against it and shakes her head, “That would probably be weird since I’ve only known him a few days. Anyways, you guys,” she grips the front seat like she’s holding the safety bar on a roller coaster or something equally ridiculous, “I know you both kind of have a patent on Coming Back From the Dead or whatever, but you both also need to understand that that doesn’t give you a monopoly on hunting. You two can’t kill all the baddies by yourselves, so stop trying, and stop feeling bad about it when you can’t. I mean, I obviously don’t know the grisly details of the whole Lucifer thing, since Edlund’s books and your retelling are all I have to go on, but you just gotta go _easier_ on yourselves, okay? Like, take a bubble bath with scented oils or something. Gosh.”

No one says anything, and Charlie grimaces.

“Ah,” she says, “Maybe pep talks only work on TV and during larping… This is awkward.”

“No, uh, that was great, Charlie. Thanks,” Sam says, in his usual blustering way when trying to convince people what they say isn’t going to be immediately discarded. Charlie knows the tone.

Dean, however, is silent for a little longer.

“Yeah,” he finally says, like he’s had a revelation neither Sam or Charlie are privy to. “Okay.”

And before anyone can say anything, he’s out of the car and off into the bunker somewhere.

Charlie and Sam stare after him.

“I can’t believe it,” Charlie says, “He just House’d us.”

***

“Hey, you didn’t die,” is the first thing Kevin says when Dean walks into the kitchen. He has half a bagel in his mouth and is currently smearing jam on the other half. “Good for you.”

“Where’s Cas?” Dean asks, ignoring the greeting.

“Uhh… I think he’s in the gym again,” Kevin brushes by Dean, and disappears down the hall.

Dean does a complete three sixty, trying to decide which way to go to get to the gym.

“Since when do we have a gym?” he asks the empty kitchen.

***

It takes him a while, but he finds the gym. One day, they’re going to have to properly map this place out. Charlie compared it to the TARDIS’ interior her first time here, and from what Dean’s seen of it, he tends to agree.

Cas is sitting cross legged in an alcove at the back, without shirt and in baggy basketball shorts, sucking down water. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and his torso is gleaming with sweat.  For practically the first time in his life, Dean feels uncomfortable with the nudity. The word _indecent_ actually crosses his mind, and he can’t help but bark out a laugh, which immediately alerts Cas to his presence.

Cas, to his grudge holding merit, seemingly refuses to say anything first. Dean, subtly fighting the urge to cover his eyes, stops a couple feet away.

“Hey,” he offers, and cringes at the awkwardness of it.

Cas drinks more water.

“So you’re alive. Why are you so twitchy?” Cas asks, without looking at him.

“I- what?” Dean tries to play it off, but he can start to feel the back of his neck prickling. This is _ridiculous_. It’s just skin. It shouldn’t work him up this much.

Cas tosses the water bottle off to the side and stands up. He spreads his arms.

“Is it this?” he asks, taking a step forward. “My inevitably human skin? My human sweat?” he takes another step, and Dean thinks, yeah, he’s still pissed. Not that he’d expect anything else. “Does my overwhelming _humanness_ make you uncomfortable, Dean?”

They’re practically nose to nose now, and Dean swallows hard. It feels like the tension in the room has been ramped up to eleven, and he has to take a step back from Cas’ withering glare to clear the fuzz from his brain.

Dean clears his throat about fifty times before gathering the courage to admit that, “Yeah. It does.”

Cas nods and takes a step back as well.

“You’re just-” Dean waves a vague hand, “Every time I saw you you’d be wearing like a thousand layers topped off by this aura of irritable righteousness. I guess I just,” he shakes his head, not even sure what he’s trying to say, “I guess I didn’t think much about the actual skin that was attached to it.”

That’s a lie, kind of. Dean can’t take responsibility for hazy dreams he barely recalls in the morning.

“It’s like you were untouchable, or something,” he finishes helplessly. “And now you’re here… sweating. You gotta admit, it’s weird, man.”

“Yeah, It’s definitely ‘weird’ to lose one’s essence,” Cas says dryly.

Dean sighs deeply.

“Look, Cas, I’m sorry I kicked you out of this one, okay? I’m honestly worried that you don’t know your human limits. I mean, you hardly knew your limits as an angel, and if you push them too much as a human, you pay for it.”

“And, more importantly, I know you’re a grown, uh, man, and you can make your own decisions. So what I’m _asking_ you to do, is to decide to sideline yourself for a while, at least until you’re at fighting weight again.” Dean has a weirdly vivid flashback to Zachariah’s green room, of pleading with Cas to turn against heaven. It discombobulates him.

Cas licks his lips, and Dean feels himself blink rapidly in response. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Cas do that, and it throws him even more.

Those humans and their saliva glands, huh?

Cas thinks on it for a moment, eyes cast downwards and arms crossed.

“How about we just… take it one step at a time,” Cas says slowly, bring his gaze up to Dean’s, “One level at a time.”

“Sure, man, whatever you want,” Dean agrees in relief, “One level at a time it is.”


	3. I Am Teddy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title of the chapter comes from the name of an old email chain letter.

Conspiracy theory chatrooms are never a fun avenue for research, but Abaddon’s comment about things “being afoot” isn’t something they can ignore. When something has a Knight of Hell bargaining for what she wants instead of outright taking it, may feet quake in boots across the nation, and Sam’s feet are bigger than most.

Chatrooms aren’t exactly the most fruitful avenue, but they’ve already exhausted all their usual sources, and no one seems to know anything.

“I don’t get it,” Sam says, leaning back in his chair and groaning. Someone is messaging him furiously about something called ‘Cheesus’, and he’s thinking he may have to give up the research for the day since the most electrifying topic people can come up with is apparently Cheeto Jesus. “Abaddon acted like it was only us who weren’t in on the joke, and yet no one seems to know a thing.”

Dean, who’s ‘busy’ playing cards with Charlie at the other end of the table, snorts.

“She was probably just messing with us, man. It’s Abaddon, who the hell knows what she’s thinking.” He puts down a card that seems to seriously agitate Charlie, and smirks.

“But that’s the thing,” Sam counters, “She wanted Crowley, and then she didn’t care. Just like that. As soon as she realized we didn’t know anything, she just… backed off.”

“Uh, _actually_ , she sicced a bunch of demons on us,” Charlie corrects, scanning her cards, “But I can totally see how you’d mix that up with the act of backing off.”

Sam shakes his head but doesn’t reply. Something’s up, and someone, _somewhere_ has to know what’s going on.

Cheesus has left him alone for the moment, so Sam continues to scroll down the page. He follows a link that catches his eye, and laughs when he realizes what it’s talking about.

“Hey, you guys don’t want to fight Abaddon, we could always chase deadly chain emails.”

He expects a chuckle at most, and Dean delivers on that front. Charlie, however, looks up with wide eyes. She practically throws her cards back onto the table to dash around to Sam’s side and peer over his shoulder, while Dean makes a hopeless gesture at the pile of cards.

“What does it say?” she asks, weirdly intense, even though she’s already reading at the speed of light.

Dean and Sam look at each other, and then both look at Charlie.

“Uh… Charlie,” Dean clears his throat, “You _do_ realize those emails are just a joke, right?”

Charlie scoffs heartily at him, and Sam tries to hide a smile. Dean’s getting better with technology, definitely. Frank helped him out a couple years ago, and he even downloaded some apps after Purgatory. But he (and Sam) still pale in comparison to Charlie.

She reads the page intently, not saying a word, while Sam and Dean watch with raised eyebrows.

“I didn’t mention before,” Charlie says, scrolling, subtly kicking Sam out of his own chair so she can take over, “but in between the actual hunts I did? I was doing a little… mmm… hunternetting.”

“What?” Sam and Dean say together.

“Okay, sorry, it’s a pretty bad portmanteau,” At their looks of disgust, she amends, “Hunting on the internet.”

“How does that even work?” Dean asks, “You, like, attack them by furiously clicking on them?”

“Not exactly.” Charlie clicks away from the site and opens a couple new tabs. She starts typing names into the search bar. “You guys remember that tulpa you took down in _Hell House_?”

“What?”

“Oh, sorry, I guess you don’t know the names. Um, it was the first time you met the Ghostfacers, and the tulpa had sort of taken over that haunted cabin because of Harry and Ed’s site spreading the rumor around.”

Dean shakes his head.

“Fuck, it’s still so weird you know that stuff.”

“Sorry. But anyways, what I’m trying to say is that it’s a new age, guys. Monsters don’t just exist in the deep dark forests anymore. Now, they exist in the deep dark corners of the internet.”

“That’s… okay.” Sam says. “I guess.”

Dean-who, despite his baby steps in technological wonders- still refuses to switch from cassette tapes to CDs, so it doesn’t surprise Sam that he seems to be having trouble swallowing this particular pill.

“You mean like… computer viruses, right?” Dean asks.

“Uh… no. Not exactly. ‘I Robot, You Jane’?” She asks hopefully, appealing to both Sam and Dean.

At their blank looks, she waves it off.

“You guys really need to learn the names of things,” she chastises, and then points to the screen, clicking between tabs.

“All those names mentioned in that article were real,” she says, “Missing persons dating back to 2003.”

“How in the world did you know it was real?” Sam asks, “It’s a freaking conspiracy theory website. Kind of based on lies.”

“Two reasons,” Charlie says, clacking away on the keyboard, “One, I’ve worked a couple cases like this. Not all chain emails are deadly, obviously, but sometimes people get lucky. Generally if they end up on a site like this, they’re legit. Two, the person who posted that article? I know them.”

Sam leans over to squint at the username.

“You know **thetruthisinhere473**?”

Charlie nods.

“In a way, yeah. We’ve never actually talked, but I’ve followed a few of their tips and they all lead to actual cases.”

“Alright, awesome. Shoot, uh, truthy here a message and see if they have any more info.”

At that, Charlie blanches.

“The problem with that…” she begins tentatively, “is that they refuse to give out more info than that, unless you pay and meet in person.”

“Well that’s obviously a scam, then.”

“It’s not,” Charlie insists, “I took out a tulpa and an electric poltergeist thanks to them.”

“And you can’t remotely hack into their files or something?” Sam asks.

Charlie shakes her head.

“This guy is outfitted more securely than the Pentagon. The only way we’re getting info is on their terms.”

Dean sighs heavily.

“You’re _sure_ about this, Charlie?”

“One hundred percent plus some.”

“Fine. Set up a meet.”

***

Cas’ room is even starker than Sam’s room, and that’s saying something.

There’s a bed, and some borrowed clothes in the closet.

That’s it.

It sets Dean’s teeth on edge, but he does his best not to say anything. It’s Cas’ space, and he’s free to do what he pleases with it.

Dean just kind of wishes he’d do _something_ , doesn’t even matter what. Anything that suggests permanence. As it is right now, it’s more of a hotel room. A place to rest for the night, and not a place to live.

The only sign that anyone lives in here at all is the sight of Cas sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. His bandaged hands rest in his lap.

Dean never said it was a _promising_ sign of life.

He knocks lightly on the open door.

“Hey.”

Cas looks up, face blank for a moment before falling into the familiar pattern of recognition.

“Hello, Dean.”

He’s got shadows under his eyes and looks like he’s been human for half a century as opposed to half a month. His complexion is wan and drawn, and even though Dean knows he spends hours in the gym taking it out on that damn bag, he seems to be getting skinnier.

“How’re you-” Dean catches himself before he finishes the question. He promised himself he wouldn’t ask it anymore, because he hates the look on Cas’ face every time he does- like it’s a pain that can’t be measured in words.

“You hungry?” Dean asks instead, “There’s spaghetti. Everyone else is dishing it up now.”

“No, I’m fine, thanks.”

Cas’ stomach chooses that moment to rumble loudly, and Dean feels his own stomach twist unhappily in response.

“Cas…” he pleads, “Please tell me you’ve eaten at least something today.”

“Of course I have,” Cas says, like Dean’s speaking nonsense, “We all ate burgers just a little while ago.”

“That was two nights ago.”

“Oh.”

Cas doesn’t seem as bothered by this revelation as Dean would like him to be. They had explained the basics to Cas, the tiny realities of being human that might escape the understanding of a being as exponential and otherworldly as an angel. Sure, Cas had been on ground for a couple years, but it’s not like he ever bothered to study the technicalities of teeth brushing or how not to burn a grilled cheese sandwich. He was a quick enough study, for sure, but his follow through skills were abysmal. He forgets to eat and forgets to shower. Dean hears him roaming the hallways of the bunker in the middle of the night, and suspects Cas wanders until exhaustion forces him down. He’s found Cas asleep at the kitchen table, in the library, and on one momentous occasion, in the backseat of the Impala. Needless to say, humanity is taking its toll on Cas, mostly because Cas seems to detest the notion of being human _so_ much.

Dean was only going to let Cas know supper was ready, but now he knows he’s going to do it. He hopes that maybe it’ll get Cas back into the groove; maybe he just needs to feel useful to gain some color back. Dean knows the feeling.

“Charlie found us a case,” he says, “and uh, it’s probably nothing big, a bit of a road trip and a little bit of talking, but I was wondering if you wanted to tag along?”

Cas opens his mouth, and only then seems to contemplate his answer.

“Yes,” he finally says, “I think I’d like that.”

“Awesome. We’re going to head out tomorrow morning and take two cars. We’ve gotta meet Charlie’s contact in Wyoming tomorrow night, and then we’ll probably have to split up. I figured Sam and Charlie can take her car, and then you ride with me in the Impala?” he tries not to sound hopeful, but he both desperately wants Cas to come along, and is also desperately afraid of letting him out of his sight. Having Cas beside him for six hours gives him the false sense of security in that he can keep an eye on him, and try to figure out, what, exactly is going on.

It’s not exactly rocket science, Dean thinks. He was an angel, now he’s not. But he also thinks it goes beyond that.

“It sounds good,” Cas says, and Dean is visibly relieved.

“Good, yeah, that’s- that’s good.”

He starts to leave, give Cas some space, when Cas actually calls out after him.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you tell me more about the case?”

It’s a stupid thing to be happy about, but Dean feels like it’s a baby step.

A level.

***

The drive to Wyoming is basically six hours of prairies and the wind whipping through the open windows of the car. It’s the beginning of June and getting hotter, and the breeze feels nice. It ruffles Cas’ hair and his shirt flaps in the wind whenever he moves. Every once in a while he’ll turn to stare at Dean, mouth twitching like a smile is trying to chip its way out, but not able to quite yet. Dean does his best to smile enough for the both of them; it’s not exactly hard, what with the sunshine and open road being eaten up under the Impala’s tires.

The radio is fuzzy, old twangy country music making its way through every once in a while. Dean barely catches the faint strings of banjos and ukuleles over the static and noise of the wind in the car. There’s a man singing on the other end, voice deep and full of longing, but he eventually gives way to commercials that sound like they’re for vacuum cleaners and insurance and a whole bunch of other things Dean isn’t interested in at the moment.

Right now, Cas almost looks like he’s at peace, and that’s enough for Dean.

***

Charlie’s tapping her fingers on the wheel in time to the cheery pop music they’re listening to, and Sam’s staring at cows out the window.

“So how are you doing?” Charlie asks, “I mean, has the trial trauma simmered down a little?”

“Ahh,” Sam scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

“‘Yeah yeah I’m fine’, as in ‘yeah yeah I’m actually fine’, or ‘yeah yeah I’m fine and it constantly feels like my insides are melting’ fine?”

Sam doesn’t know why he bothers lying. It’s weird how this kind of thing has become inherent to him, but he supposes a lot of things about the hunting life are weird. Dean is usually either incredibly overbearing or practically non-existent in his concerns, and Sam likens Charlie’s ‘get to the point’ strategy a lot more to Castiel’s approach to life than either his or Dean’s. It throws him off, but then he remembers that Charlie is about as close to a normal person as a hunter can get. So maybe he should take the opportunity that’s presenting itself.

“Kind of in the middle?” Sam says, like a question.

“What, you don’t know?” Charlie stares at him for a moment before setting her eyes back on the road. She turns down the music. “I mean, you went through a lot of pain and suffering for something that, in the end, didn’t exactly pan out.”

“Yeah, well, that’s part of the job.” Sam doesn’t like the resignation in his own voice. He stares at the prairies whipping by, ignoring the pull in his ribs. It’s more than a physical tiredness, though. His mind feels heavy, like someone replaced his brain with a bag of wet sand when he wasn’t looking.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Charlie encourages, “You guys just need to find another way to close the gates of hell. Or, y’know, just let it go. Since it’s not your job.”

“It’s our job,” Sam says the mantra automatically. “It’s always our job.”

“There’s always going to be bad in the world,” Charlie argues, “Whether you guys are there to fight it or not. Don’t you think it’s time to let someone else take a turn?”

“Do you even know how many times we’ve almost ended the world?”

Charlie shrugs.

“Obviously you fixed it or there wouldn’t still be a world here to end.”

Sam says nothing, clenching his jaw. He knows what Dean would say to this. Dean would scoff and deny and deflect. Dean would practically crumple under the weight of his own guilt right there. Dean would say that it’s not enough, that it’ll never be enough.

Sam can only relate to an extent. He and Dean have always seen the world differently, from different vantage points. Sam thinks in broad strokes, in goodness and badness and loyalty and independence and redemption; separate compartments, like ice cube trays. He sees good and bad in people, knows they can both exist in the same person.

Dean, however, is more unpredictable in that sense. Sometimes, Sam thinks his brother sees the world in two shades only; people that he loves, and those that are trying to hurt the people that he loves. And because of that, he’ll always be fighting for the ones that he loves, because in his eyes, there’s nothing else to it. Dean protects and clings and fights, because without those he loves, all that’s left are those trying to hurt. And Sam’s not sure- no matter how hardened Dean pretends to be- that his brother could handle that.

It’s not a weakness. Sam learned that the hard way back during the days full of demon blood and the veins running under Ruby’s thin skin. But it _is_ a limitation, and it’s one that Sam has no interest in having. He’s seen it destroy Dean over and over. Bobby. Ellen and Jo. Their dad. Every single time Cas has died he’s watched Dean unravel like a badly made Christmas sweater. Dean loves destructively. He doesn’t know how to love any other way, and it ruins him.

It terrifies Sam. It was what he ran from after the fiasco at Roman Industries. Sam remembers feeling that way about Jess all those years ago. He remembers rage so strong that it burned through him like a forest fire and left him derelict and wandering, a husk. He thinks, if he had to love like Dean loved, even for a day, he’d combust.

So Sam says nothing. Because he doesn’t know for sure what he wants. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to be like Dean.

***

“So this’ll be a good time to work on your people skills, huh?” Dean asks, “A nice, easy talk. Not even an interrogation, in fact. Just a talk.”

Cas rubs his itchy eyes.

“Yes, it’s just a talk,” he says, seemingly irritated.

Neither of them say anything, and Dean’s just reaching forward to turn up the radio when Cas opens his mouth again.

“I thought we decided that you wouldn’t say anything else about how, if, and when I choose to start hunting again,” Cas says in that same tone of voice that teachers use when they’re trying to refrain from throwing a whiteboard marker at a kid.

Dean pulls his hand back like he’s been burned.

“I didn’t say anything like that,” he says, confused. “I was just saying that it’s good your first outing is a relatively danger free one.” He considers. “So far, at least. I guess you never really know, though.”

“You’re never going to see me as anything other than broken,” Cas states simply, like he’s been thinking about it for the entire drive. Maybe he has. So much for peacefully staring at the scenery.

Dean blanches.

“No, Cas, that’s not what I was trying-”

“It was a lie, what you said then,” Cas interrupts quietly.

“What? I-”

“‘Nobody cares that you’re broken,’” Cas quotes wryly, fiddling with the hem of his shirt in an incredibly human gesture, “But you do. Care, I mean.”

Dean shakes his head, bewildered.

“Of course I care, Cas. I don’t know how you could ever doubt that. You’re family, man.”

“And families help each other, right? I want to be useful. I want you to support me being useful.”

Dean’s honestly not sure if he’s ever heard such a skewed idea of familial obligations, and that’s a hefty order coming from him. He scrubs his jaw, trying to search for the right words.

“It’s not about… _usefulness_ , Cas. Jesus. You’re not my toothbrush or a bread maker, y’know? You aren’t a machine. You don’t serve a purpose and then we just stick you away in the back of a cupboard until we need you again. When I…” Dean trails off here, because this is getting dangerously close to laying it all on the line. Cas is watching him, eternally patient. “Ah, fuck it, when I say _I need you_ , it’s not your powers or your usefulness that I’m after, Cas. It’s just _you_.” Dean clears his throat, trying to unsuccessfully tamper down the sudden nervousness settling in his stomach. Even in the middle of a discussion about usefulness that inevitably extends back to Cas’ graceless state, back to so many other things that prove just how far Cas is willing to go for humanity, Dean still has his doubts, sometimes. “I mean… if that’s how you see relationships Cas, what are you in _this_ for?” Dean asks, gesturing between the two of them, doing his best to hold back the desperation in his voice. “What use could _I_ possibly be of to _you_?”

Cas seems genuinely confused, like he’s never considered the question before.

“You are very dear to me,” he says slowly, parsing it out. “I was just- I was always under the assumption that you needed things from me.”

The pit in his stomach is back, because Dean knows he’s been guilty of this. During the year of the civil war in heaven, there was a lot of tension between them. Cas was stretched thin across literal dimensions and Dean was in the middle of losing Lisa and Ben and dealing with a soulless brother. It was a rough go for all of them, and somehow things just started falling through the cracks, including their relationship. Dean still remembers their brief meeting with Rachel, remembers, _I think you call him when you need something_. It was a throwaway line, something said by someone angry he’d known for two minutes.

God knows there was enough blame to go around during that year, but the idea that if Dean had maybe just done more, had reached out further…

The point being, Dean never bothered to correct that assumption.

“People need things from people,” Dean says carefully, doing his best not to reinforce Cas’ original assumption. “I mean, if I was drowning and you had a lifeboat, I’d want you to save me. But you need to understand that I’m not just friends with you because you have a lifeboat in the first place.” He raises his eyebrows expectantly at Cas, who nods slowly.

“I think I understand,” he says, a small smile quirking his lips. “I hope you know the sentiment goes both ways as well.”

Dean huffs relieved laughter through his nose.

“Thanks, Cas.”

***

**Cheyenne, Wyoming**

“Okay,” Charlie announces, “We can’t all go in. I don’t want to scare them away.”

They’re standing in the parking lot of the diner Charlie’s supposed to meet the informant in, a roadside that looks like it’s been around as long as the dirt surrounding it. The sky is still bright blue, wisps of clouds stretched out like pulled apart cotton balls. It’s sunny and dusty, and the air above the asphalt of the highway shimmers with heat. They’re almost directly off the I-80; just off an exit with barely any signage. There are three cars in the parking lot, all trucks that look like they predate the sixties.

“I’ll go,” Dean offers as he shucks off his coat, leaving only a thin grey t-shirt. “Christ, it’s hot.” He tosses it through the half open window of the Impala, and pulls at his shirt collar to get some ventilation going. Charlie silently approves of her decision to wear a flowery tank top today- natural ventilation. (it’s also the same pattern of a certain someone’s pretty floral bonnet.)

Charlie shakes her head.

“No… You and Sam are too tall. Too intimidating. I’ll take Cas.”

Charlie slings a cheerful arm around Cas’ shoulders and steers him towards the entrance.

“C’mon, it’ll be some buddy bonding time, buddy!”  she chirps, and then calls over her shoulder to Sam and Dean, “We shouldn’t be long!”

“Uh-” Cas looks a little cagey, “I’m not sure I’m the best choice for extracting information from a delicate informant. I’m still not quite versed in the finer aspects-”

“Oh, hush,” Charlie shushes him, “This is kind of a dry run, right? A trial? Besides, we’re paying for the info. No extracting needed.” She winks at him, though she’s not sure he sees it. “I got your back, Jack.”

“My name isn’t Jack.”

Behind them, Sam and Dean settle in against the Impala.

“Didja hear that, Sam? We’re too intimidating.” Dean’s grinning widely. “Yeah, that’s us. Like a bear or Jackie Chan or something.”

“Uh huh.”

Charlie pulls open the door and a tinny bell chimes somewhere in the back. It’s a typical roadside diner, red vinyl booths and black and white checked linoleum. There’s a husky guy sitting at the counter, probably an off duty trucker, and a teenage couple in the booth at the back. The only other occupied booth has one occupant, and is also the least typical truck stop riff raff. Charlie starts to make her way over, but Cas gently gets a hold of her elbow to stop her.

“How do you know that’s who we’re meeting?” he asks lowly, leaning in so as not to be heard.

Charlie rolls her eyes.

“How many other people in this place have a half-shaved head and blue hair?” she counters, before breaking his grip and striding over, with a parting, reassuring, “You don’t even have to say anything.”

She slides into the booth opposite their contact, and tries to decide if it’s cool or not to smile or not at the person about to give them info. It’s not like it’s an FBI plainclothes sting, but they’re also not on a coffee date. Level of casualness is something she’ll have to determine along the way.

Cas slides in beside her with his stoic gameface on.

The person sitting across from them is extremely androgynous, with the aforementioned bright blue hair. Their face is smooth, slim, and gaunt, and their fingers clink with every minute move, thanks to the huge assortment of rings they’re wearing. Their fingers are constantly moving and twitching, like they’re accustomed to typing on a computer for twelve hours straight instead of the stillness of cupping a mug of coffee. Charlie can feel the slight vibrations in the table from where they’re frantically jiggling their leg.

“Charlie?” they ask, and a muscle in their cheek twitches. There’s a black folder on the table in front of them with no label on the outside. For some reason, they’ve decided to wear multiple layers in this heat, all dark greys and blacks and greens.

Charlie nods, “That’s me.” She inclines her head. “That’s Cas.”

They only look at Cas for a moment, sizing him up, and Charlie silently gives herself kudos for only bringing one of them in. Their contact looks like they’ll bolt at the smallest hint of confrontation, and even though Sam’s got that gentle disposition and Dean can charm the pants off anyone, she’s fairly sure this person sitting across from them could smell the debauchery a mile away. Not that Cas really has a much better track record, but he just recently became human so Charlie figures that counts as close as any of them will get to a blank slate. (Come to think of it, her track record since meeting the Winchesters- and, technically, before- isn’t exactly spot free either.)

They take a moment, and then extend a paper thin arm across the table.

“Carson.”

Charlie shakes Carson’s hand, and then has to nudge Cas to do the same.

“Thanks for meeting me.”

Charlie shrugs.

“Meeting in the middle seemed as good an idea as any.”

Carson nods multiple times before shoving the coffee out of the way and opening the file. They turn it around on the table, and Charlie and Cas both lean forward to take a peek.

It’s a surprisingly competent document. There’s a list of names in the left hand column, and a corresponding date in the right hand column.

“You’re obviously onto something,” Carson says, hands splayed flat on the table, “I mean, you were interested in those other cases- the tulpa and the poltergeist, right? I recognized you username,” they tack on, almost sheepishly.

“They’re taken care of,” Charlie says non-chalantly, doing her best not to sound too smug.

Carson’s face, however, lights up.

“That tulpa was a tricky one,” they breathe, “and you got it on your own?”

Charlie shrugs, but feels a flush creeping into her cheeks.

“A simple algorithm that changed the internal coding whilst simultaneously keeping the old code running so no mods would suspect anything,” she waves it off. “Child’s play, really.”

“That’s so cool,” Carson says, obviously excited. “Do you ever hunt outside of the internet?”

“Occasionally,” Charlie admits, and Carson smiles widely. It brings life to their gaunt face, and Charlie can’t help but smile in response.

“I’ve always wanted to,” they muse, tapping their fingers on the table, “but never quite had the courage.”

“It’s not as great as it’s cracked up to be,” Charlie cautions. “A lot more death and a lot less monster slayage, to be honest. It wears you down.”

“Duly noted.”

Carson taps the file.

“Okay, down to business. The names are, obviously, the people who went missing. The dates are the day they got the email.”

Charlie scans the document, eyes flicking to the very top. She points it out.

“So this is the first person to go missing, right?” It’s someone by the name of Christopher Yates, and the date is September 20th, 2003.

Carson nods.

“There’s no pattern to the disappearances, except for the obvious.”

Cas, who has been examining the paper as well, speaks up for the first time.

“The obvious?”

Carson looks between him and Charlie, and Charlie just shrugs apologetically.

“They all disappeared at midnight or just past,” Carson explains, and on Cas’ squint deepening, they continue, “Since that’s what all the emails say. ‘Pass this on before midnight, or something bad will happen to you,’ etc etc.”

“Any chance you know where it started?” Charlie asks hopefully, and is thoroughly disappointed when Carson shakes their head.

“No idea. Christopher here is the first name I have, and from what I can tell, he was an office drone in Colorado. I doubt he had mind or means to start a thing like this.”

Charlie _tsk_ s.

“If you ask me, I think the real tragedy here is that people still forward these damn things,” Charlie mutters, and Carson titters appreciatively.

“In their defense, this is the only one they’d actually want to forward,” Carson points out.

“The most recent recipient on this list only has an attached date,” Cas interrupts, “And no name.”

Charlie examines it.

“Oh, shit,” she says, “That’s today. Carson, why isn’t there a name attached?”

They both look up at Carson, who’s suddenly wearing a _ya-got-me_ expression.

“Yeah,” they say, chuckling weakly. “I guess it’s a good thing we met in person, huh?”

Realization dawns on Charlie.

“Oh, shit,” she says. “You’re the most recent recipient.”

***

“So we’ve got t-minus six hours to figure out what’s going to try to viciously murder our new bff, Carson,” Charlie finishes explaining. At Carson’s wide eyes, Charlie amends, “To destroy what’s most definitely _not_ going to kill our new bff Carson.”

“Much better,” Carson says faintly.

They’re all standing between Charlie’s annoyingly respectable car (“Less conspicuous,” she had said, and Dean most definitely didn’t take that as a shot at his baby) and the Impala. In a surprising twist, Carson seems to be the only one not affected by the heat. Everyone else looks like they’re about to melt on site, which sucks even more for Cas since it’s his first proper hunt as a human.

“Okay,” Dean says, “Sam, Charlie, Carson, how about you guys hole up in a motel for the night? You won’t make it home in time, and if something attacks you on the road, that would be a mess no one wants to deal with.”

“Gee, thanks, Dean.”

“Cas and I will head to Colorado,” Dean continues, “and try to find the source of this thing and deal with it for good.” He turns to Charlie, “You think this is the same kind of deal as a salt and burn? Get the original computer’s hard drive and everything goes poof?”

Charlie shrugs.

“Doubtful. I mean, it worked for the poltergeist I worked online, but that was pretty specific circumstances.”

“Specific how?”

“Specific as in he died while on his laptop and collapsed onto it. His face literally melted into the keyboard.”

“Eugh.”

“Yeah. So unless that’s the case here I doubt it. As for the tulpa, it was just a matter of changing people’s perceptions of the legend. Like typing gibberish into a Wikipedia article, except that if someone changed it back, people would have died.”

“Perfect,” Dean smiles sarcastically. “Sounds like a piece of cake.”

“What could do this though?” Sam asks, “I mean, the people might not even be dead. We have no idea where they’re getting taken, and there’s no evidence left behind.”

“Can people think themselves out of reality?” Carson asks, “I mean, I know I don’t know as much about this as you guys, but I’ve been posting tips for hunters for a while now…”

Dean turns to Cas.

“Well, Cas? What do you think? Can people think themselves out of existence?”

“If someone were to truly think themselves out of existence, we wouldn’t be talking about it right now, since they never would have existed and therefore there’s nothing to talk about,” Cas says mildly, fanning himself with a napkin from the diner. “Since that’s obviously not the case, I’d say no.”

“It’s strange, though,” Charlie muses, digging around in her bag and pulling out a transcript of the email. “I mean, it’s not exactly your typical chain letter. Most threaten death by axe murderer or ghost or something. This one literally just says, ‘you’ll be sorry if you don’t pass this on to ten people within two hours. whatever you do, don’t go to sleep tonight.’” She looks around at everyone, “I mean, chain letters work because they freak people into spreading them but this is just… exceptionally vague.”

“People often fear what they can’t see,” Cas chips in gravely, “I think religion proves that well enough.”

Charlie hesitates.

“Okay, point. But the fact that it’s not typical is still an important thing. That could mean it’s either super legit (which it is), but it could also mean it’s written by someone who isn’t really familiar with the format of chain letters.”

“So someone who doesn’t work with computers on a regular basis,” Sam sums up.

“Which means this Christopher guy probably isn’t our best bet, if he worked in an office,” Dean adds on reluctantly. “I mean, guys, we don’t really have a lot of time to be chasing our tails here.”

“I think you should still go,” Carson says, tapping out a pattern on their thigh, “It’s the oldest date I have for the email. It’s bound to be important, or at least a lead.”

Dean leans back against the hot exterior of the Impala, conflicted.

“Alright,” he finally settles, “We’ll keep to the original plan.” He points to Carson, Charlie, and Sam, “You guys are the research dream team. You gotta figure out what we’re dealing with, and I’m betting the local library closes pretty soon, so you better get a move on. Sam, keep in contact.”

“Will do.” Sam nods at him.

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean opens the door to the Impala and slides in. Cas comes around the other side after a quick parting word to the others.

As soon as Cas has the door closed behind him, Dean peels out of the parking lot. In a matter of seconds, they’re back on the road, practically flying to Colorado.

***

Charlie searches up the library’s address on her phone, and Carson follows her and Sam in their own car.

“So what’s your read on Carson?” Sam asks, as they drive deeper into Cheyenne. “You don’t think… uh, they’re a part of it, do you?”

Charlie scrunches up her nose.

“No way. Carson’s definitely got a Lydia Rodarte-Quayle thing going on; all the twitchiness, none of the evil meth distributor, mind, but definitely legit. Spending your life giving tips for online supernatural hunts can’t be a terribly fruitful or light-filled one- especially on sites full of conspiracy theorists. I’d say the twitchiness is expected, all things considered.”

“Ah. Okay then.”

A beat, then-

“So you think Carson’s cute, huh?”

“What? What makes you think that?”

“We watched you rock Moondor, Charlie. I’ve seen you flirt your way across the battlefield. I know the signs,” his voice is light, teasing.

Charlie sighs dramatically. “All right, you got me.” She starts listing things off on her fingers, “Hunter- kind of. Hacker. Computer genius. Blue hair. I mean, c’mon,” she holds up a strand of red hair, “Together, we’d be unquestionably badass and also Spiderman. Let’s just say I’m definitely invested in making sure Carson doesn’t die tonight.”

“All because you think they’re cute.”

“Also because I’m a decent person.”

“Oh, right, of course,” Sam says, mock seriously, and Charlie lightly punches him in the shoulder.

***

**(Almost) Denver, Colorado**

Cas is almost positive Dean is going above the speed limit on the way to Christopher Yates’ old home in Denver, but he can’t be one hundred percent sure, since the signs are all going by in multicolored blurs. Cas doesn’t say anything, though. He trusts Dean not to kill them in a car accident.

“So I figure the story’ll be that we’re like, distant cousins of good old Chris’, or something, okay? We can, I don’t know, have found some new leads in his disappearance. Hopefully whoever owns the house now will be able to tell us where all his old stuff went.”

“It’s been almost ten years since he disappeared,” Cas says doubtfully, “The owners might have changed since then.”

Dean shakes his head.

“Nah. Whoever lives there now-no matter how many times the place has changed hands- will know at least _something_. You move into a new house, you wanna know the history of it.”

“How would you know?” Cas asks, and only realizes he’s said something incredibly hurtful after the flash of disquiet in Dean’s eyes.

Dean’s lips spread into a thin line, and he minutely shakes his head.

“Guess I wouldn’t,” he says, obviously strained. Cas watches his grip tighten on the steering wheel. “Just common sense.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says after a few uncomfortable moments, chagrined. “Becoming human hasn’t changed my tactlessness, unfortunately.”

Dean lets out a big breath, and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

“It’s fine, man,” he says, “And, uh, for the record, during my year with Lisa and Ben, we moved around once or twice and I always checked out the history of the place before signing on the dotted line. Can’t be too careful, y’know?”

Cas nods solemnly, still feeling vexed with himself. As an angel, he tended to be exceptionally blunt, for better and for worse. He knows Dean and Sam used to become exasperated with his frankness, and he could never quite bring himself to bother learning to hold himself back.

Now, however, he thinks he’s starting to understand the need for tact. Dean hasn’t once said anything about his overwhelming humanness being a burden. He’s never complained that the lack of Cas’ powers now make things more difficult. In fact, he’s been an active advocate for Cas assimilating into human culture with surprising aplomb. Whenever they get a spare moment, Dean is patient and kind- if gruff- explaining the finer things Cas hasn’t quite grasped yet. Dean’s pulled him into the living room many times to introduce him to a new television show or movie, cheerfully explaining the character beats and plots to him as the story plays out in front of them.

He hasn’t been able to appreciate tact, because he’s never been in a position in which he desperately needed it directed at him.

Despite rebelling against heaven, despite all the doubt instilled in him from the moment he met Dean, Cas has always carried a sense of righteousness with him. It seems to be an inherently angelic thing, to be so bullheaded and stubborn. He knows certain humans who are fairly… _determined_ as well, but nothing as close to the sense of celestial judiciousness that he’s seen from his former siblings. In fact, it was that sense of righteousness that deposed him when he became god, which is actually something he’s perversely thankful for.

But now, navigating conversational waters with a merely human sense of rightness , he feels wrong in his own skin. He doesn’t feel objectively _correct_ anymore, but he somehow continues to voice his thoughts, filterless. The intricacies of western dialogue alone seem as cavernous and vast as the Son Doong Cave, and he feels a sudden, irrational burst of anger at not only himself, but everyone around him.

He’s stuck in a comparatively tiny automobile, driving, earthbound, and can barely think straight he’s so angry. He can’t even speak properly, can’t hold a proper, _human_ conversation. His cheeks are hot, and he realizes with barely registered surprise, that he’s embarrassed. And it makes him angry.

He’s _ashamed_.

These are not emotions he’s used to. He’s felt regret, felt betrayal and unadulterated joy. He’s felt right and very rarely, in the wrong. But those are like the primary colors of emotions. Now he’s getting into shades and mixed colors, richer and more saturated. It’s overwhelming—another feeling to add to the ever growing pile. He doesn’t understand how humans can function under such onslaughts. Not only that, but they’re directionless, wandering without order or purpose.

“Cas?” Dean asks from beside him, and Cas barely hears him through the roaring in his ears. “Cas, you look like you’re in the middle of an existential crisis there.”

Cas lets out an unplanned bark of laughter, and even he can hear the tinge of hysteria in it. Dean is watching him with big, worried eyes, and a quiet ticking sound indicates he’s turned on the turn signal. He pulls onto the gravel shoulder of the highway, and Cas practically falls out the car.

The gravel is hot, burning him, and he scrabbles to the very edge before vomiting over the embankment.

***

“It’s gotta be a tulpa,” Charlie says, staring at Sam’s laptop screen over his shoulder with increasing frustration. They gave up on the library almost immediately, seeing as it consisted mostly of Mary Higgins Clark mysteries and a kid’s section with books that looked terrifyingly sticky. They’re in the motel now with two lukewarm pizzas and a couple of cracked open beers sitting on the table. “There’s only so many things that could alter reality like that, and tulpas are really increasing in numbers online.”

“That doesn’t sound horrifying at all,” Sam mumbles, glancing at Carson quickly over the top of the screen to make sure they’re still there. From the sounds of it, it doesn’t matter if Sam and Charlie are here or not, if the thing wants Carson, it’ll get Carson.

“You could’ve just sent the email along,” Sam says to them neutrally, “And saved yourself.”

Carson, who’s lying on the bed, sits up immediately.

“And killed who knows how many people in the process.”

There’s an idea in Charlie’s mind, fleeting and just barely on the edges of her consciousness. She tries to grab hold of it, but it’s a slippery little bastard.

“This thing is exponential,” Charlie mutters, trying to coax the idea out of hiding, “It snowballs, some sending to another ten people, some ignoring it and disappearing- probably dead…” Charlie glances at the list of names again. It’s only one page long (albeit single spaced). “This email has been going around for a decade,” Charlie says, “And more people tend to ignore chain letters than pass them on. But this list-” she waves the paper around, “Is relatively small.” Carson stands up and walks over to examine the list.

“No one else has gone missing who’s received this email,” Carson says, “I’m positive.”

“Well then there must be something linking the people who did go missing, right?” Charlie asks triumphantly, “Since not everyone who received it and didn’t send it along disappeared.” The idea pulls gently at her mind again, but still refuses to coalesce. “We just need to figure out what links them. Myspace was launched in 2003, along with some other sites from later years I can check for personal info. Sam, can you call the victim’s families? Get some intel?” Sam nods, and is off, dialing operators and using his fake FBI agent voice. Carson is digging around eagerly in their bag, pulling out their own laptop.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before,” they say, opening it up and typing quickly. “I bet a lot of their email addresses haven’t been deleted yet. I can comb through, see if I can find anything.”

Charlie beams, and starts her search.

***

Cas is looking pale and shaky in the passenger’s seat, and Dean is thinking about how excellent Cas’ first hunt as a human is going. Really, Dean shouldn’t have expected anything less than roadside vomiting. It’s just how things tend to work out for them.

They’re parked across the street from Yates’ old house, and luckily it’s still early enough for a social call from a long lost relative of the guy who used to live in your house, ma’am. Luckier still, it’s the goddam suburbs like it was ripped from Edward Scissorhands itself, which means there’s bound to be gossip flying faster than a bat out of hell, and it shouldn’t be too hard to get the needed intel.

“Okay,” Dean gets ready to delegate, laying a hand on Cas’ shoulder. “You just wait here and man the wheels, alright?” At Cas’ fishy, exasperated stare, Dean puts his hands up in surrender. “Just sit still, then. Don’t pass out on me.”

He can feel Cas’ glower follow him up the walkway, and moves a little quicker. If there’s anything Dean’s learned about Cas since he became human, it’s that he gets exceptionally irritable at even the slightest sign of illness. The first time Cas got a runny nose, it was like the world was ending all over again, and for them, that’s not even hyperbole.

Dean puts on his best charming-yet-disheartened smile, mindful that he should look as harmless as possible while still maintaining the validity of the cousin story, and lifts his hand to the knocker.

***

Sam glances at the clock on his laptop. Four hours till their deadline.

 “They’re all believers,” Charlie says from her place on the bed. “Every single person I’ve looked up is involved in either serious religion or healing crystals or fortune telling—y’know, woo woo stuff.”

“Woo woo stuff,” Sam says, putting down his phone. He had just been talking to someone’s crying mother, and tries not to dwell on it. “A couple of the victims I’ve looked into were like, candle makers and yoga instructors. It’s not surefire, but I guess it’s more likely they’d be into ‘woo woo stuff’ than if they were accountants or something.”

“Beware the generalizations,” Carson cautions, and Sam nods his head in acquiescence. “Although I guess with four hours till my demise I could probably be a little more lenient with them.”

“Anything on your front, Carson?” Charlie asks, pushing her laptop off her thighs and stretching her legs out.

“Now that you mention all the wooey stuff, yeah,” Carson says, clicking through a couple windows on their laptop. “Every account that I’ve been able to find and access has a couple of those ‘unable to send’ emails that you sometimes get for whatever reason. And all the bounced emails are from the chain letters.”

“Meaning they didn’t end up sending the correct number of emails for the tulpa to leave them alone, I assume?” Sam asks, and Carson nods.

“So they got boned by shoddy email servers,” Charlie shakes her head and grimaces, “Should’ve called it efail.”

“Wow.”

“Charlie.”

“Sorry, sorry, bad joke, I know.”

“So this basically means that the more these people believed in these chain letter things, the more susceptible they were to it,” Carson says, chewing their bottom lip. “Or, I guess, the more willing these people were to believe anything.”

“Wouldn’t be the first monster to prey on the gullible,” Sam adds.

“The fact that we call these people gullible, and yet here we are fighting vampires and tulpas and werewolves probably says a lot about who we are as people,” Charlie says, earning her pained laughs from both Carson and Sam. “Sometimes I think every kind of irony is lost in the vastness of the universe.”

“This is actually good news for us, at least,” Sam says, looking to Carson now, “So long as you’re not super gullible.”

“I think the idea of gullibility is rendered moot once most of the things I used to believe in are actually true.”

“Good point.”

“It doesn’t matter though,” Carson continues, “I received that email from someone. That means at least nine other people received it. Any one of them could be next on the list.”

“Who did you even get it from?” Charlie asks, “I mean, you don’t seem like the kind of person to keep the company of someone who would send you something like that.”

“Flattering, but not true,” Carson says. “My technologically impaired mom sent it to me. The generation gap between us is too big for me to convince her that forwarding chain emails like that is basically a social faux pas by 2013.”

“On the bright side, your mom is safe,” Charlie says approvingly. “Good email server then.”

“It better be,” Carson says, “I’m the one who set it up.”

***

Cas is so busy stewing in his own juices that he doesn’t realize Dean is back until he’s sliding behind the wheel.

“Feeling better?” Dean asks, leaning an arm across the top of the seat. His fingers are only an inch or so away from brushing Cas’ hair.

“What’d you find out?” Cas asks, ignoring the question. Physically, he is in fact feeling better. It’s just everything else that sucks.

Annoyance briefly flashes across Dean’s face before he settles into a more neutral expression.

“I got my ear talked off and drank two cups of raspberry lemon tea.  I also got this.” He holds up a notebook that Cas hadn’t even noticed him carrying.

“And that is?”

Dean smiles.

“ _These_ are his notes from his Introduction to the Internet course over at the local community college. Our pal Christopher obviously wasn’t too happy in his tiny cubicled job, and was looking to expand his horizons.”

“How does that help our case?” Cas asks, irrationally irritated.

“Well, Grumpy, it helps our case because the last class he went to before he poofed off was all about email, and there’s a specific section here on chain emails.” Dean looks fondly at the notebook. “Ah, 2003. What a strange time.”

Cas is about to say that, of course 2003 was a strange time. It was during the period of time Sam was at Stanford and you were left to hunt alone with your father. It was during the years you learned what being truly alone felt like. It was during the years you took a baseball bat to the face after getting supremely drunk and initiating a bar fight, and spent the next six weeks hurting every time you smiled. You forgot, after that, even after your face healed, that it wasn’t supposed to hurt when you smiled.

He doesn’t say any of this though, because it’s not appropriate. He is employing tact.

What he says instead is, “okay.” Maybe not as elaborate, but definitely more likely to keep this conversation going at the predicted trajectory.

Dean whips out his cell phone and dials a number. He hears Sam’s tinny voice in greeting on the other end.

“Sam, yeah, turns out we were wrong. This Yates guy was the one who started it all. He was in a night class about the good old internet, and the last section in his notes before he disappeared is about chain emails. Their assignment for that week was to create a chain letter… Yeah, well, what can you expect from a class teaching you how to use email in 2003… Apparently they would have gotten extra credit if they were able to get at least ten other people to forward it along. So much for hands on learning, huh?... Shut up… A tulpa? No surprise there… Alright, I don’t think there’s much else we can do here. The friendly Hendersons who now live in his house told me the rest of his stuff is long since gone… Yeah, the notes from his class were just forgotten about and they figured no one would want them so they just stuffed them away in a drawer…”

Cas tunes out the rest of the conversation, and Dean’s voice fades to background noise.

He’s brought back to reality by a loud tapping on the passenger side window, and when he looks, he sees a plain faced man wearing simple, faded jeans and a forest green sweater staring back at him. Cas turns to look at Dean, to tell him that a stranger is currently tapping on his window, but Dean’s already looking, mouth hanging open. He still has the phone against his ear, and faintly says, “Gotta go, Sam,” before hanging up and dropping the phone onto the floor.

“I know who that is,” he says, eyes wide. “The Hendersons just showed me an old picture…”

The connection zips into place behind Cas’ eyes, and he turns to look out the window again. The man is still staring at him.

“That’s Christopher Yates.” He states flatly.

***

Dean is scrambling for the gun in his waistband, even though they’re currently parked on a residential street and it’s not even fully dark yet. Precaution. Always precaution. He stumbles out of the car, gun in hand, and points it at Yates- or whatever has taken Yates’ form.

“Dean,” Cas says, sounding annoyingly unperturbed as he casually exits the car.

“Cas,” Dean hisses, “Get away from it!”

“It’s him, Dean,” Cas says gently, holding out a hand. Yates reaches out, and they share a firm hand shake. “Well, kind of.”

“Extraordinary,” Cas murmurs, staring at Yates like he’s an undiscovered species. Yates’ mouth twitches, but bitterness lines his face.

Dean keeps his gun in hand, but lowers it. He moves to Cas’ side of the Impala, looking around to make sure there’s no looky loos. There’s nary the twitch of a living room curtain. He subtly positions himself between Cas and Yates, and draws his attention to the gun still in his fist.

“You were supposed to have gone missing a decade ago,” Dean informs him icily. Cas sighs impatiently from behind him, but says nothing.

The summer sun is just starting to set, casting orange and gold hues over everything. It frames Yates, gives him a fuzzy, dreamlike quality, even though he seems just as bland as all their info on him promised.

“And what do you mean, ‘kind of’?” Dean says over his shoulder to Cas, refusing to take his eyes off Yates.

“I’m the tulpa,” Yates answers for Cas, and despite the lines of his face, there’s a sereneness to him that belies the physical. It’s like his body can’t decide if it wants to go with the flow or jump off the nearest high thing.

“That’s funny,” Dean says, “because the last tulpa I met was a murderous son of a bitch who tried to kill me with a whole variety of fun things. Also he didn’t wear a casual Friday getup and hang out in suburbia. So what’s your story, pal?”

Yates doesn’t raise his hands to show he’s defenseless, like most people would when there’s a gun ready to fire at their face. Instead, he merely stands with his hands fallen to his sides, posture relaxed.

“I’m a thought form,” he informs Dean, “so you can’t hurt me.”

“Yeah, well, I think I can I think I can,” Dean snaps. “The gun isn’t going anywhere.”

The tulpa sighs deeply, though doesn’t seem irritated.

“Once tulpas are created, they can take on a life of their own,” Yates explains, “I’ve become, ah, self-aware.”

Dean squints, either because of the sun or because of his own confusion, he’s not sure.

“What, like Skynet?” he asks, and can almost hear Cas’ consternation at hearing yet another reference he doesn’t understand.

“Sure,” Yates acquiesces, “If it helps you to think of it that way.”

“So, what, you just exist independently of that stupid chain email you made?” Dean says, “You’ve up and disappeared a bunch of people you know. Ruined a lot of lives.”

Yates shakes his head mournfully.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that,” he says, voice filled with regret, “It got out of hand.”

Dean sighs through his teeth and grimaces, rubbing his forehead. He chances a look back at Cas, who’s staring at him solemnly.

“What I don’t get,” he says, finally stuffing his gun back into his waistband, “is how this can even happen. It takes a lot of thought power to create a tulpa, let alone a self-aware one. And there was no symbol to concentrate on, either. There wasn’t anything…” he holds out both hands stiffly, like he’s trying to cup water in his palms, “ _concrete_.”

“I’m a thought form,” Yates says, “I’m the furthest thing from concrete.” He slowly weaves his hand through the air around him, and Dean watches the light rays play behind the dance of his fingers, like opening and closing blinds on a window.

Dean’s not following.

“I’m not getting this,” he says, “Are you _actually_ Christopher Yates? The same physical body and mind that went missing in 2003?”

“Yes,” Cas and Yates both confirm at the same time.

“But you’re a _person_ ,” Dean says, trying desperately to understand. “Or you used to be, at least.”

“I am,” Yates says, “But there were… extenuating circumstances.”

“Enlighten me.”

“I can’t.”

Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Excuse me? Why not?”

“It’s not part of the deal.”

Dean finds himself losing track of a conversation he’d already thought he’d lost track of. “Wh- what? What deal? With who?”

Yates shakes his head, and to Dean’s surprise, his eyes spark with fear.

“I _can’t say_ ,” he says lowly, like whoever he made the deal with could be listening in right at this moment. Dean does another quick sweep of the surrounding area, and the only suspicious thing he can see is the Tibetan thought form standing in front of him.

“Listen, bud,” Dean says, taking a step into Yates’ space, “People are dying because of you and your stupid email, and you need to fix it.”

“I can’t.”

Dean takes another step closer.

“People have been disappearing for over a decade because you’re a punk ass office drone who got in over his head or whatever, capiche? You made a deal with the fucking devil or someone, I don’t care. You’re going to fix it.”

“I _can’t_.” Yates finally seems to be getting the picture, his voice going somewhat shrill. “I can’t, don’t you _get it_?”

Dean narrows his eyes.

“Get what? None of this makes any fucking sense. All I know is you need to fix what you broke. After that, I don’t give a shit. Fly off to Nirvana or wherever the hell it is you guys go.”

“I can’t!” Yates finally snaps, and grabs Dean by the collar. For a thought form, he sure has a firm grip. “I was an _experiment_ ,” he hisses, shaking Dean slightly, “an experiment that _failed_. I can’t stop the disappearances, I can’t stop the chain letter, I can’t do _anything_.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Dean grits out, planning to fight to whatever end Yates has planned for him, “I thought you were fucking Skynet. Free will and self-awareness and all that jazz.”

A manic glint appears in Yates’ eye.

“Free will?” he mutters into Dean’s ear, and everything suddenly seems incredibly, incredibly still. “Free will is an illusion, Dean Winchester.”

Then the hands that were just holding Dean up aren’t there anymore, and he stumbles. Cas rushes forward to steady him, one palm on his back and one cupping his elbow.

“You okay?” Cas asks, hands warm on his skin and through his thin shirt in the dying rays of the sun.

“Yeah, I’m fine…” Dean moves forward and Cas’ hands fall away. He stands in the same place Yates was standing a moment ago. He turns back to face Cas.

“What the hell was that?” he asks.

Cas shakes his head.

“Thought forms aren’t an exact science,” he muses, eyes roving all over the spot Dean is standing, and subsequently, Dean himself. The sun has almost dipped below the horizon by now, casting Cas in ruby and crimson tones.

“You knew what he was, though,” Dean says, “You got out of the car and shook his damn hand.”

Cas nods, looking like he’s drifting away and back into his own head again.

“There was a taste in the air,” he says cryptically, “Maybe it’s some sort of residual angelic abilities manifesting themselves. Whatever it was, I knew. There were characteristics warring for dominance,” he looks off to the right, staring at an artificially green bush bursting with yellow summer flowers, “there was the emptiness of a thought form, only created by the perceptions of others,” now he’s looking at Dean with the kind of intensity that’s always made Dean uncomfortable, but in this moment, Dean realizes this is the most present Cas has been for weeks- since he fell, in fact- and in the silence of this moment, he feels it flood in his chest like a tidal wave, “and there was the total substance of a person, a presence that owes nothing anything, a solidness that offers no apologies for just being.”

Dean’s not sure if they’re talking about the tulpa anymore.

“Of course,” Cas continues, “that’s an exceptionally unique position for a tulpa to find themselves in. This is definitely something that should be investigated further, though perhaps at a later date because I am exceptionally hungry.”

Dean lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and holds up a finger, _one sec_. They did what they set out to do, and he has a hunch.

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone, dialling Sam again. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries this time, just tells Sam to tell Carson to check their email.

Sam says blankly, “It’s gone,” and Dean says, “I figured,” and hangs up.

“The last minute saves are always eventful,” he tells Cas as he puts his phone back in his pocket, “but more often than not, we save the day with time to spare. None of that tv bullshit where every single week there’s ten seconds left on the clock and the protagonists get there _just in time_. Naw,” he shakes his head, patting Cas on the shoulder, “This is reality.”

Cas nods along, even though Dean knows he hasn’t watched enough tv yet to really follow. He’ll get there.

***

Carson checked the emails they had hacked earlier, and to their surprise, the chain letters had all disappeared- even the ‘failed to send’ notifications.

“What the hell did Dean and Cas do?” they ask, leaning against the door of their car.

They had said goodbye to Sam in the motel room, but Charlie offered to walk her out.

Charlie shrugs.

“I’m sure I’ll get the full story once we’re back in Kansas. I could, uh, message you the deets, if you wanted?”

Carson bites their lip, trying to hide a smile.

“How about you call me instead?” they offer, scribbling down their number on a piece of paper and handing it to Charlie, who stares at it a moment before slipping it into her pocket.

“Cool,” she says, and then dorkily adds,“Score.”

Carson smiles, and holds out a hand.

“It was nice to meet you, Charlie. Even if it was under potential threat of death.”

Charlie shakes their hand, and they hold it longer than necessary.

“Likewise.”

“But you should know,” Carson says, as they open the door, “My name isn’t really Carson.”

Charlie huffs a laugh.

“That’s alright,” she says, “My name’s not really Charlie.”

“Well then,” Carson leans forward to kiss Charlie on the cheek, “I look forward to figuring you out.”

Charlie nods.

“Likewise.”

***

“So, all in all,” Dean says, as he and Cas make the drive back to Kansas, “It was one of the weirder hunts, and technically it might not even be over yet, if what Yates said is true. But overall, not too bad, right?” he asks hopefully. “Obviously it wasn’t a perfect go, but hey, when is it?”

“I hope I don’t vomit on the next hunt,” is all Cas says, and Dean figures a goal is a goal is a goal.

They drive in silence for a while, having decided to just push through the night instead of shelving out for a motel. Sam and Charlie are staying in the place they rented, since they figured they might as well use it if they paid for it.

“I’m glad you came,” Dean says about an hour later, out of the blue, “On the hunt, I mean.”

Cas stares out the windshield contemplatively, as if he’s deciding how to respond.

“Me too,” he finally says.

Dean basks in the sincerity of that statement.


	4. Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from the song of the same name. (in this case, the bing crosby version.)

It’s as close to domestic bliss as anyone expects. Everyone is spread around the library in various states of sitting, (or in Cas’ case, standing over by the telescope because he got too caught up in what he was reading and forgot to sit down) with some kind of reading material in hand. The ever so engaging material he’s got his nose stuck in is the manual for the new coffeemaker, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s reading the instructions in every language, just to be thorough. Cas had expressed an academic interest in coffee as an angel, and as a human, it’s become less academic, more inherent. Dean suspects it’s because Cas hates to sleep- something about the vulnerability probably, though bad dreams are also a fairly good guess, he thinks.

Kevin, on the other hand, is reading a comic about some superhero or another over on the beanbag chair they’d picked up at a local flea market a couple weeks ago. Sam’s flipping through the latest book in the Song of Ice and Fire series, sprawled across two chairs at the table, somehow managing to take up even more space than usual. Dean’s got Sam’s copy of the first installment of the series in his lap, about half of the way through. He has a bad feeling about Ned Stark, if only because he’s seen too many people walk the road of good intentions and end up screwed to have any faith in a favorable conclusion for him. Ever the optimist, though, Dean’ll root for him, and probably get kicked in the nads for it.

Charlie, on the other hand, is sitting cross legged on the floor under a near mountain of the Supernatural books, obsessively scanning each line like there’s more than subpar writing to see on the page. The book she’s got now is called Phantom Traveler, and Dean can’t figure out for the life of him what that’s supposed to be referencing. There’s a plane on the cover, though, along with his and Sam’s laughable beefcake avatars who are plastered across every title in more and more ridiculous positions and state of undress.     

He tries to wrack his brain for any and all hunts that involved planes in the last couple of years, but eventually has to evacuate that train of thought due to the fact that thinking about planes is just about as much fun as flying in them. He’s been to hell and back and yet he’s somehow still afraid of flying.

Charlie must feel him staring in her direction, and puts a finger down to mark her page before looking up, brow quirked.

“What?”

Dean puts down his own book, and leans an elbow on the table.

“I don’t get it. Why are you so obsessed with those things?”

Something flashes across Charlie’s face, but too quickly for Dean to properly catch it. She shrugs, overtly innocent.

“No reason. Maybe I just like making you uncomfortable.” At Dean’s glare, she amends, “Okay, sorry.”

She glances down at the cover of Phantom Traveler contemplatively. She taps a finger on the cover and looks like she’s stuck in stasis for a moment before heaving a frustrated sigh. “It’s just-” When she looks back up, everyone is staring at her now. Even Cas has drifted back to the group, curiosity piqued. “You guys, what happened to christo?”

A loaded silence followers her question. Kevin stares at everyone in confusion. Cas squints pensively. Sam and Dean, however, look more than a little gobsmacked. They look at each other, brows furrowed, and Dean thinks, _what the fuck happened to christo_?

“I don’t… I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I have no idea.”

They shuffle awkwardly, and Dean finds himself sticking his hands in his pockets for lack of better things to do with them.

“This is weird,” he says, and mentally hands himself an understatement of the year award.

Sam’s forehead is scrunching and unscrunching at an alarming rate as he considers the vast implications of the situation.

“But what _is_ christo?” Kevin asks, obviously not keeping up with this axis tilting revelation.

“It’s Latin,” Cas says before anyone else gets a chance to, “For the name of god. It susses out demons in their vessels. If they hear it, they’ll respond to it.”

“Okay,” Kevin allows, “Sounds like hunting 101. Why is everyone freaking out?”

Dean’s dragging a hand down his face and Sam looks like he got hit over the head by a collection of dictionaries, so Charlie takes it upon herself to answer. She holds up the book.

“ _This_ ,” she says dramatically, pointing, “is the fourth installment of the Supernatural book series. Probably takes place in autumn of 2005, maybe a little later. So, quite a while ago. Lots of demon hunts in between now and then, is what I’m getting at. It’s the first time demons are introduced into the series, and Sam and Dean find out which vessel the demon has taken by saying ‘christo’ in front of it. It’s a pretty damn easy way to figure out who’s possessed and who’s not, you follow me?”

Kevin nods slowly. “Sure, but I still don’t see what-”

“So,” Charlie continues, cutting him off, “We would expect that to be a fairly handy dandy tool in the demon hunting arsenal, correct?”

Kevin nods again.

“Well, the novels seem to be a fairly comprehensive guide to these years in the Winchesters’ lives, and as I’m sure you’re aware, they’ve tangoed with their fair share of demons since such humble beginnings. So the reason why Sam and Dean currently look like they just got run over by trucks is because they haven’t used that word since. Not once.” She looks over at them now, a curious glint in her eye. “It’s like they’ve forgotten it existed. It’s dangerously _dangerously_ close to a retcon, which is weird, considering this is real life and retconning shouldn’t actually be a thing.”

Ever so slowly, this information seems to sink in. Kevin has a resigned look on his face, seeming to finally understand- as much as any of them can understand, at this point- what the big deal is.

“What you’re saying,” he says slowly, not meeting anyone’s eyes, “is there was basically a ‘that was easy’ button for demons? As in, I’d be able to know with two simple syllables whether someone was possessed or not?” his voice is growing exponentially louder, and he’s now switching between glaring daggers at Sam, and then Dean. “As in, during that entire year I was left on my own- with demons on my trail- I could have had a _fucking safeword_?”

“It’s not technically a safeword,” Cas informs him, the unfortunate port in a storm that should really just blow itself out, “since it won’t actually keep you safe-”

“ _Shut up_!” Kevin yells, his voice breaking at the last moment. “Because I was on the run for months, fighting off demon after demon- store clerk, dog walker, _children_ \- and you’re telling me there was a way for me to have known in advance what I was dealing with? There was a test that didn’t involve conspicuously ‘accidentally’ dumping holy water on anyone I thought was suspicious?” He shakes his head, and lets out a hollow laugh. “If I had known,” he says quietly, voice now brittle, “It could have saved lives.” He tosses his comic book onto the floor and stands up. “Fucking _retconning_ ,” he spits bitterly, and walks out of the room.

Everyone is staring at the hallway Kevin just stormed down. Cas picks up the comic and gently smooths it out on the table.

“Y’know,” Dean says after a minute, “I don’t blame that kid one bit for his habit of leaving rooms dramatically.” He looks at Sam. “We really suck.”

“Yeah,” Sam says on a heavy sigh, shoulders drooping.

“Cas,” Charlie says, “What do you-”

Her question is interrupted by Dean’s ringing cell phone. He digs through his pockets for a moment before pressing it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“ _Dean. You said to call if I needed back up_.”

“Tracy?”

Sam immediately looks uncomfortable.

“ _Yeah. Look, we’re in your neck of the woods. Beaver Bay, Minnesota_.”

“Uh, well that’s not really- y’know what, nevermind. What do you need?”

“ _Backup, moron, I just said_.”

“Instant backup? Cause we’re a little far for that. If you’re in trouble, haul ass.”

“ _No, we’re just keeping an eye on things for now.”_ She pauses, muttering something to someone in the background _. “Dean, I think we’re sitting on a town full of fallen angels_.”

“ _What_? What makes you say that? And how the hell do you know about the angels?”

Cas immediately perks up, watching the phone with an uncomfortable intensity, as if the harder he stares, the more likely he is the hear both sides of the conversation.

“ _News travels fast. And we know it’s angels because we watched a fucking mass possession in the town square last night. My eyes were closed, but I’m pretty sure they almost got burned out regardless. I’m probably going to need fucking glasses now_.”  

“Fuck,” Dean breathes, and meets Cas’ eye across the room. Cas is the most animated Dean’s seen in weeks, practically chomping at the bit. “The whole town?”

“ _Not sure. There were a fuckload of people in the square though_.”

“Fuck,” he says again, and almost regrets asking, “Anything else? Are they like, grabbing the torches and pitchforks? I guess they already got the ‘amass villagers’ part down.”

“ _Castiel was namedropped, but we couldn’t hear anything else. Half of their conversations were in another language_.”

“Cas?” Dean really shouldn’t be surprised. Cas- as accidental and good intentioned as it was- cast them out. Obviously he’s going to be a topic of conversation.

“ _Yeah. Popular guy. We know he runs with you. God forbid, this is me doing you a fucking favor and suggesting he sit this one out._ ”

Dean glances at Cas again, and can already feel the inevitable shitstorm. This is going to be a fun conversation. He rubs his eyes.

“Okay, uh, thanks for the heads up. Look, don’t do anything rash, okay? Observe and report. We’ll be there as soon as possible.”

Tracy ends the call without saying goodbye, and Dean listens to the dial tone for as long as credibility will allow before ending it from his end and staring at the screen dumbly.

“I’m coming,” Cas says immediately, and Dean feels a headache coming on.

“Cas,” he begins, and Cas can obviously hear the hesitance in his voice, because his eyes go icy and Dean’s pretty sure a chill goes through the room.

“ _Dean_. I’m going,” he says with such conviction that Dean knows- absolutely, down to his bones _knows_ -that Cas is coming. Whether he likes it or not. Because they’ve had this discussion. Cas can do whatever he wants. Even if ‘whatever he wants’ is something incredibly stupid like walking into a town full of his pissed off brothers and sisters who most likely want to lynch him.

And that kamikaze do-gooder attitude fucking rubs Dean the wrong way. Probably because this is Cas at his Cas-est, or maybe Cas at his Dean-est (sometimes they’re so fucking alike it’s hard to tell the difference), and deep down where he doesn’t like to dwell, Dean will always hate himself for that. The idea that any part of him could have rubbed off on Cas is one of the most horrifying notions Dean’s ever had to entertain, and because of that, he very rarely entertains it. And now it’s being dredged to the surface, kicking and screaming, and that pisses him off royally. Deeply examining how he feels about anyone is enough to make Dean respond like a cornered animal; he lashes out.

“Fine,” he snaps, “Fucking fine, Cas. But if you want to kill yourself, it’d be easier to jump off a bridge.”

They’re staring at each other across the room, the previous emotion on Cas’ face completely drained, leaving him with the bare minimum, as usual. Neither of them seems to want to continue the conversation, but neither of them is backing down either. It’s just about at the point where Dean thinks, _something’s gotta give_.

And then, bless him, Sam coughs awkwardly.

“Wow,” Charlie says, sounding every bit the unwilling bystander trying to dismantle the tension, “Intense.”

“Okay, Where are we going?” Sam says, still obviously uncomfortable, but wisely not saying anything.

“Beaver Bay, Minnesota,” Dean shuffles his feet, and feels like he’s been standing in glue, “Town of fallen angels, mass possession. Y’know, typical day.”

Sam nods, and glances warily at Cas.

“Alright, I’ll go pack a bag.” He looks pointedly at Charlie, “You should too.”

“Oh, uh, right, yeah,” Charlie startles, and makes to follow Sam, then stops. “Actually, I’m going to sit this one out, if that’s alright with you guys.”

“Why?” Sam asks, and then notices the way Charlie’s eyes flick to the Supernatural books. “Ah, yeah. I guess you have your own mystery to solve.”

“It’s your mystery more than mine,” Charlie tells him, “Besides, someone should probably stay with Kevin, just because.”

“Good call.” Sam looks at everyone one more time, before making his exit. Charlie looks wistfully after him and his Dean-and-Cas-less escape.

“Yeah, I’m uh, gonna go get a snack,” Charlie says, taking a couple steps backwards. “Uh, bye.” She waves awkwardly, and practically sprints out of the room.

Dean shuts his eyes and puts his palm over his eyes, massaging his temples.

“Well, we sure know how to clear a room,” he says in an awful reconciliation attempt.

When he opens his eyes again, the room is empty.

***

The twelve hour ride to Beaver Bay consists of Dean constantly fiddling with the radio controls and an uncomfortably protruding silence from the back seat.

***

**Beaver Bay, Minnesota**

Tracy had texted him the meeting place about three hours out, and they pull off the road about two miles away from the “Welcome to Beaver Bay” sign.

They pull up beside Tracy’s van, an old VW that looks like its run over its fair share of down-for-the-count monsters. Dean can pick out two specific dents in the front bumper that have been recently repaired.

Leaning against the hood and looking exceptionally impatient with her arms crossed, is Tracy. Beside her is a much milder looking woman, at least a couple inches shorter. She’s thick thighed and broad, and Dean doesn’t doubt she could take Sam down in a fight, despite her height. She’s got dark brown skin, and a mess of close cropped black hair. He assumes this is the partner Tracy mentioned getting back to after their fight with Abaddon’s goons.

They all exit the car and head over to them, and Dean wonders if it’s only him who can still feel the tension between him and Cas. It’s fucking palpable, is what it is.

“Why are we meeting all the way out here?” Dean asks as they come to a stop, and Tracy rolls her eyes.

“Oh, I dunno, maybe because there’s a town full of fallen angels a couple miles that way.” She jerks her head towards the road, and the woman beside her smiles ruefully.

“Easy, T,” she says, unperturbed. To Sam, Dean, and Cas, she says, “I’m Louise Gregory.” Her voice is smoky, sounding like she’s been sitting around a campfire in the wilderness for the past two weeks instead of running down monsters in a glorified Mystery Machine. There’s a lilt to her voice that Dean thinks might be French, coupled with a southern drawl that reminds him of Benny, and he feels the familiar, hot surge of guilt curdle in his stomach.

“Louise from Louisiana, it sounds like,” Sam says, smiling down at her. The height difference is immense, him probably a little over a foot taller than her.

Louise nods, obviously amused. “Did the accent give me away? You got me, darlin’.” She has an easy, laid back way about her, which is rare enough to find in a regular person, but even rarer to find in a hunter.

Tracy, who has obviously introduced Louise a number of times, rolls her eyes.

“She’s nice now, but if you even look at her the wrong way I’d suggest you apologize fast.”

Louise laughs lightly, all bright teeth in the early morning sun.

“Don’t listen to Tracy, here,” she assures them, “She’s prickly like a porcupine but her belly is as soft as a cloud.” She winks at Sam. “Just don’t step on my toes with those big galoshes of yours and we won’t have a problem.”

“Good god,” Tracy shakes her head. They may bicker like an old married couple, but there’s a fondness in her eyes when she looks at Louise that doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere anytime soon. “Anyways, Louise, this is Sam and Dean Winchester, and I assume Castiel.” She indicates them in turn with a nod, not moving from her spot against the van.

“Oh, no worries, I know who they are,” Louise assures her. She shakes hands with all three of them, grasping Cas’ last. “I’m sorry,” she says to Cas, but I don’t think you’re going to like me much.”

Cas’ brows come together, befuddled.

“What makes you say that?” he asks, bemused.

“Let’s just say I’m not a fan of your recently unfeathered friends,” she says lightly, “And I like to be direct, so you should know I’m harboring some ill feelin’s of my own towards you.”

There’s an awkward silence for a moment, everyone waiting for Cas to respond. Tracy examines her nails non-chalantly; obviously, she was expecting this.

“That’s… understandable,” Cas eventually says haltingly.

“Look,” Dean enters the discussion, peacekeeper tone of voice on, “We’re not exactly fans of the bastards ourselves, but Cas here’s one of the good ones.”

Louise puts up both hands, placating.

“And I don’t doubt it,” she says mildly, “But it’s not goin’ to change anything.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “No duet for you and Cas this hunt, that’s fine. We’ll work around it.” He looks around the group, trying to get into planning mode. “So let’s get down to business. What’s the deal here you two?” He directs at Tracy and Louise.

Tracy shakes her head.

“No change since we last talked,” she confirms. “There doesn’t seem to have been anymore possessions, but again, this is a tiny town. Less than two hundred. They might’ve gotten everyone the first go.” Tracy pushes herself off the front of the van and moves to the side, opening the sliding door, keeping up her report. “It’s looking more and more like everyone got hit, because with the eyes we’ve kept on the town, everyone looks like they’re walking around with sticks up their asses.”

“Heh,” Dean chuckles and elbows Cas gently in the side as Tracy rummages around the van for something. “That used to be you. You were so uncool, man.”

Cas says nothing and his posture doesn’t change, but Dean gets the blast of cold shoulder regardless. Sam coughs and minutely shakes his head at Dean. _Leave it_.

“We don’t have any names,” Tracy continues, yanking a big duffel bag out of the van, “But I’m sure Columbo here can identify at least a couple for us.” She drops the bag onto the dirt, and leans back into the van.

“You realize I’m not an angel anymore, right?” Cas asks, “I don’t have the ability to recognize my fallen siblings.”

“Fuck,” Tracy says, coming out of the van empty handed this time, and slamming the door in annoyance. “Okay, then, whatever.”

“What are you, then?” Louise asks, seeming genuinely curious, as Tracy crouches down and opens the bag. She starts laying out the amassed weapons, checking the guns for bullets and making sure the blades are sharp. Dean vaguely thinks that these two make one of the most frightening pairs of hunters he’s ever come across, even if he’s barely seen one and never seen the other in a fight yet. Tracy’s open hostility and Louise’s frank-but-relaxed way makes the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up. The way Louise is still speaking to Cas- with genuine curiosity no less- even though mere seconds ago she told him she couldn’t stand him. Tracy hasn’t even looked at Sam once since they arrived. These two must put on one hell of a good cop bad cop routine.

“He’s human,” Sam says with a strange look, as if he doesn’t get why Louise is asking the question.

Louise chuckles, and only stops when she realizes no one else is laughing with her.

“Wait, you’re serious?” she double checks, looking at Sam, Dean, and Cas’ sober faces. Tracy resolutely ignores all of them, spinning the clip of a revolver with a satisfied click.

“He had a human vessel,” Dean shrugs, “Now it’s his. That’s how it works, right, Cas?”

Cas says nothing.

“Cas?” Dean asks again, and a muscle works under Cas’ jaw.

“Being human isn’t just about the body,” he clarifies, sounding less than pleased with having to reveal this information. “There are many variables and conditions, one of the most important being the ownership of a soul, which you should know, is not a condition I meet.”

Dean feels like he’s been slapped across the face.

“Cas, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, man. That’s the most ridiculous-”

“Ready.” Tracy interrupts them, standing up. She either hasn’t been listening to their conversation, or doesn’t care, as she hands two blades and a pistol to Louise, who tucks them into strategically placed holsters.

Cas glances quickly at Dean, his eyes thankfully not full of the anger that’s been there since their fight at the bunker, before looking doubtfully at Tracy’s weapons.

“My siblings may be fallen,” he says, “but they’re still angels. The only weapon that can wound them is an angel blade.”

_Wound_ _them_ , Dean thinks. Cas doesn’t want to kill them.

Tracy holds out a bullet for Cas’ inspection.

“Bullets, blades, even a couple crucifixes just in case,” she explains, “all fashioned out of melted down angel blades.”

Cas picks up the bullet, examining it.

“That’s very clever,” he admits, dropping it back into Tracy’s waiting palm. Dean wonders if he’s thinking about Crowley’s bullet that he had to dig out of his own stomach. “Where’d you find the blades?”

Tracy shrugs.

“A lot of angels have died recently. When they fell, we knew we needed to really arm ourselves. We scavenged a couple. Stole a few. Somehow a dumbass millionaire up in New York got his hands on one and had it on display in his personal gallery. That was my most exciting B&E in a long time.”

“Clever,” Cas repeats, protectively patting his own blade in his interior jacket pocket. A jacket was the last thing he wanted to wear in this heat, but the blades are large and he can’t just have it materialize into his hand anymore. Inconspicuousness is his goal here, though by the way Tracy’s taking practice swings with her knife, he’s not sure his plan is a universal one.

***

After Sam, Dean, and Cas have been gone for about six hours, Kevin tentatively pops his head back into the library, looking as liable to flight as a spooked hippogriff.

Charlie glances up from her place in Skin to nod at Kevin, but doesn’t say anything. Slowly, he comes forward on his own, as if drawn in by her throne of books. Charlie knows the feeling. It may not be any Iron Throne, but it definitely packs its own punch.

“They’re never going to stop screwing me over,” Kevin says quietly, sitting on the chair nearest her. “It’s never going to end.”

Charlie is smart enough to know she’s in this mess of her own volition. She’s got no mystical ties to this quest, no destiny waiting to be fulfilled. Usually, that would bug the crap out of her. But reading these books, about the lives that end because of the monsters in the world, about the crushing weight both Sam and Dean feel on their shoulders; looking at Kevin, who’s just a kid and never going to have a normal life, the dark circles under his eyes and even the way he holds himself.

There’s nothing she can say to fix it. Not a single thing that can really make this better. But by god, she’s read and watched enough rousing pep talks to know she must have one somewhere deep inside. All she has to do is find it.

Instead, she hands out Hook Man.

“You should give it a read,” Charlie says, “I’m pretty sure there’s a scene where Dean has to paint some dude’s back blue for a pep rally or something. Needless to say, he’s not pleased.”

Kevin stares at her for a moment, as if assessing her. Charlie swears she’s not holding her breath.

“Fine,” he finally says, and takes it from her, somewhat begrudgingly.

Charlie tries to hide a smile.

***

“What exactly _is_ the plan?” Dean asks, “because if there really is two hundred pissed off fallen angels in that town- including kids, I assume- then what the hell are we supposed to do about it?”

 “You guys have been dealing with angels for years, and you don’t have an exorcism yet?” Tracy asks dubiously.

“Banishing sigils, sure,” Dean says, “But exorcisms? Not that-”

“Yes,” Cas interrupts. “Well, sort of. It’s closer to a spell.”

“Well, what is it, Cas?” Sam asks, “Lay it on us.”

“Its intended purpose is to cast the angel out of its vessel and send it back to heaven,” Cas explains, “Although, with heaven inaccessible at the moment, I assume the angels will be stuck in this dimension for an undermined amount of time, unable to retake their original vessel. It’s not perfect, but it’s doable.”

“Hey, perfect enough,” Dean says, “Where the hell did you get it from, anyways?”

Castiel glances furtively at Dean, and chews his bottom lip for a moment.

“Alistair used it to cast me out of this- uh, _my_ \- vessel years ago. It was after… you know.” Cas doesn’t want to bring it up ever again, and he’s sure Dean doesn’t want him to either.  Forcing Dean to torture Alistair in order to find out who was killing the angels is one of many regrets in a long, long line for Cas.

“Oh,” Dean says. “Right. Okay.”

He can feel Tracy and Louise watching with curious eyes, feels Sam’s gaze of mixed emotions like a goddam hole in the head. Guilt, pain, regret; the whole crappy list.

“Regardless,” Cas continues, trying to smooth out his voice as much as possible, “It’s an extremely powerful spell and I do remember it. It should work.”

Tracy claps her hands together.

“Alright then, let’s get going.”

***

“This is like some kind of weird therapy,” Kevin says later. Indeed, he feels lighter, somehow. It was Sam, actually, who had to paint the frat boy. Either way, it tickles him.

Charlie nods vigorously.

“Just wait till you get to the next one,” she says. “Bugs is a fandom classic.”

***

Cas isn’t sure how he ended up with Louise, but she was the one who dragged him off, strangely enough. Dean, Sam, and Tracy are all on their own, searching for any kind of town announcement system, or anything they could use to get Cas’ spell broadcast to everyone at the same time. According to Tracy and Louise, the angels convene every other day in the town hall around this time to give status reports. What those reports convey, though, no one is sure.

Cas doesn’t like the idea of being babysat, but tries to hold his tongue. He figures if that was actually the case, Dean would have dragged him along with him, or told him to go with Sam. Louise must have brought him along for a different reason.

They’re right on the outskirts of town, at the edge of their chunk of area to search. They had split the town into sections, and with the area the size that it is, it should be a fairly quick recon mission- especially since Tracy and Louise already know their way around fairly well. Cas had recorded the spell onto everyone’s phone before they left, so that they can put the plan into action as soon as possible. They’re all supposed to meet a couple streets away from the town hall in an hour, since the meetings usually only run for a couple hours, meaning they’re on a deadline.

“The police station is on the other side of the road, there,” Cas follows Louise’s finger to the low brown building across the street, and nods. “There’s probably a couple angels still in there, but if we can snag a cruiser, we can use the speaker on top to blast the spell.”

“I won’t be able to hotwire the car,” Cas says ruefully, feeling incredibly useless, once again, “I don’t know how yet.”

“No worries,” Louise says, unhurried, “You can be the lookout. You alright with that?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go, then.”

They hurry across the street, and Cas feels naked in the daylight. Vulnerable. He’s never been quite so aware of the light as he is right now, at how incredibly exposed they are. If they get caught, he can’t just zap out of here. He’s going to have to fight, and even worse, he might have to kill some of his siblings. Again.

He thinks that it should be easier, now, the murder. Morally, at least, it should weigh less on him. Whether because of general desensitization or actual justification, he can’t be one hundred percent sure.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter. The idea of sticking a blade in a brother or sister’s stomach still feels like he’s sticking one into his own. He’s thought before- if briefly- about how Dean or Sam would feel plunging a knife into the other’s heart. He’s tried to rationalize it away, but broken down into its base components, the story is the same. In fact, the odds are even stacked in his favor, in that he was never destined to have to kill his siblings.

And somehow, he ended up being the one with a pile of dead angels at his feet, and Sam and Dean have managed to evade that destiny over and over again. It’s not bitterness that has taken hold of him, but a bone deep contrition. Something must have went wrong somewhere along the line for things to end up like this, and Cas is starting to think that thing is him.

“Okay, up we go,” Louise interrupts his thoughts, and climbs the lot fence. “Make sure to avoid the barbed wire,” she cautions, swinging herself up and over in an incredible physical feat. Cas thinks both Sam and Dean would be suitably impressed, since he’s fairly sure they still prefer to throw their jackets over wire if the situation ever presents itself. She lands on the other side almost silently, and heads towards the nearest cop car. She starts fiddling with her lockpick before Cas can even scale the fence, and by the time he’s made his way over to the car, she’s already inside and popping open a panel on the driver’s side full of brightly colored wires.

“Glad to see you finally made it,” she says, working the wires with deft hands.

“You’re exceptionally good at this,” Cas says, making sure to keep an eye on the entrance to the building.

“My father was a preacher, and my mother was the editor of a local newspaper,” she explains around the miniature tool kit in her mouth. “My brothers were choir boys and my sister played the organ at church. I spent my free time painting my nails black and practising witchcraft.”

Cas says nothing, but instead tries to express his interest in listening through silence.

“Obviously, the whole witchcraft thing didn’t pan out, but it did get me kicked out of the house when I was sixteen. I almost got killed by a werewolf one night, and only survived when it misjudged a lunge at me and launched itself into a wood chipper.”

Cas raises his eyebrows, a prompt.

“Okay, so I strategically placed myself between it and the wood chipper and it wasn’t so much a misjudged jump as it was my quick reflexes. I had bibles thrown at me for a lot of reasons as a kid. You learn to get out of the way fast.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, because he’s not sure what else to say.

“I’m not lookin’ for a pity party. I’m explainin’ myself, Cas. My family and I weren’t peas in a pod, sure, but they were still my family.” Louise starts flicking two bared wires together. “Get in the car, we’re almost done here.”

With one last glance at the building- clear- Cas slides into the passenger seat. There’s a spark at Louise’s fingers, and the engine starts.

“We’re going to have to go through the gate,” Louise says, nodding at the padlocked fence. “Depending on what they’re doin’ in there, they may hear, they might not. Let’s hope for the latter.” She guns the car, and with a metallic rip, they blast through the gate. Cas winces, but no sirens immediately go off. No helicopters swoop down from the sky. He has to keep reminding himself this is town has less than two hundred denizens, and the most dangerous thing that generally happens here is probably deer on the road. They most likely aren’t equipped for the likes of Louise Gregory.

They drive to an alley a couple streets over from the town hall, waiting for everyone else to get back. Cas checks the dashboard clock.

“You stole a police vehicle in under half an hour,” he says, “That’s quite impressive.”

Louise doesn’t answer, and when he looks up, she’s staring blankly out the windshield, like she’s in a trance.

“They were possessed,” she says quietly. “When the angels fell. I guess ours is a family of vessels.” She laughs hollowly, and her eyes are shining. “Makes you think you’re somethin’ special, y’know? But you’re not. I watched my entire family say yes, and I watched them burn out. Like Fourth of July fireworks.” Her lips press into a thin line, and as quickly as her eyes started to glisten, they turn hard. It’s a still kind of fury, immortal and marble like a statue, and it doesn’t fit well on her face. Her face is one for relaxed, wide smiles and lemonade on porches, and Fourth of July fireworks that light up the sky, not her family’s chests.

Cas feels something scrape along the underside of his ribcage, a mug rattled against the bars of a prison, a stick dragged along the wrought iron fence posts surrounding a centuries old cemetery.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, his voice dry and sandy, all the moisture evaporated. His tongue is leathery in his mouth.

“I know,” she says sympathetically and with complete understanding, “But I don’t care.”

“They asked me, too,” she continues, “We were having our first family dinner in years.” She shakes her head, a small, private smile working its way onto her lips, “We were having meat loaf.” It drops away right after though, and she puts her hands back on the steering wheel, as if she just wants something to hold onto. “It happened so fast. Light so bright I couldn’t see, and then they were just… gone. They- the angels- stood up and walked out of the house in single file, stiff as boards. I screamed at them, but they didn’t even look at me. I still have no idea where they are.”

That something is still clawing at Cas’ chest, yowling and tearing now, begging to break out. Unbidden, images of Amelia and Claire Novak spring to mind. Claire would have been fourteen this year.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, and when he says it, it’s not just the Novaks and the Gregorys he’s thinking of. It’s the endless list of lives he’s ruined.

Louise doesn’t say anything this time. She just nods.

For the next twenty minutes, they sit in silence.

***

Sam’s section to search through was composed of a well, a small park, and an old, crumbling shed. Needless to say, he didn’t find anything that could be of use. He runs into Dean and Tracy about a block from the meeting spot.

“Did you guys find anything?” he asks, and Dean holds up a megaphone with an eye roll. “That’s _it_?” 

“It’s a small town,” Tracy hisses, “We’ll have to make do.”

Turns out, though, Cas and Louise hit the jackpot. After an initial almost heart attack on Dean’s part when they turn the corner (“Do _you_ wanna get caught by a bunch of fallen angel cop buddies, Sam? Cause I sure as hell don’t!”) The game plan has been laid out. According to Tracy’s best estimates, they have about a half hour until the meeting is out. They park the car out front, and after triple checking that Cas’ recording is still working on all devices, they start to set up the speakers on top of the cop car.

Cas seems out of order, staring off into space a little too much for Sam’s liking, given they’re about fifteen minutes away from hopefully blasting the angels back to kingdom come, or whatever the closest equivalent open for business is these days.

“Cas,” Sam says, snapping his fingers in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean look up, curious, and prays that he says nothing. The last thing they need is another blowout before go time. “What’s up, man? You’re spacing out on us. We need all hands on deck here.”

Cas blinks rapidly, and then his eyes focus on Sam’s fingers still held out in front of him.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he announces to the group at large, and Dean’s face immediately takes on a suspicious tint, but he says nothing.

“Really, Cas?” Sam asks, exasperated. “It’s kind of the eleventh hour here.”

“I have to go,” Cas snaps, and stalks off.

Dean stands up fast enough that it looks like he’s been electrocuted. He’s just about to run after Cas, when Sam catches his eye across the roof of the car and shakes his head. “Don’t.”

“Sam, he’s not going to take a fucking piss and you know it. He’s going to do something stupid.”

“Yeah, well, if you run across that lot right now you’re going to be doing something stupid as well.” In fact, this whole thing is fucking stupid, and Sam’s probably not being rational right now in letting Cas go off on his own, but really, neither is Dean. Sam knows, god knows Sam knows, that Dean does what he does out of love. But that doesn’t change the fact that sometimes Dean can be the _tiniest_ bit overbearing, and watching him with Cas lately has been enough to set his own teeth on edge. Dean cares so much, but he has a habit of caring _at_ them while also caring _for_ them. It can get frustrating.

“We don’t have time to argue,” Dean hisses, and takes off in the same direction Cas went.

Sam puts his hands over his face and tries not to groan. When he finally puts them down again, Louise and Tracy are staring at him, faintly amused despite the fairly dire circumstances.

“So are you gonna go after them, too?” Tracy asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Goddam it,” Sam says, and walks off.

***

Naturally, Cas isn’t peeing where he said he would pee. Isn’t that always the way.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean is hissing, because the last thing he wants to do is ping a nearby angel’s radar, even though hissing a name-even in a town this small- isn’t exactly a reliable way of locating someone. Especially if the person in question doesn’t want to be located.

“ _Cas_!”

“Dean!”

“Sam?”

Dean turns around to find that yes, indeed, Sam’s large form has followed him just like he followed Cas. The only (read: most important) difference is that Sam has been able to find him because he didn’t lie about where he was going or what he was doing.

“He’s not peeing,” Dean informs him, gesturing to the empty patch of grass they’re standing in. “What a surprise.”

“You think he’s planning on crashing the meeting?” Sam asks.

Dean shrugs.

“I dunno, probably. I would have known for sure if you hadn’t fought me back there, though.” He starts off around the town hall, Sam hot on his heels.

“This isn’t the time or the place for this,” Sam says harshly, “But get ready for some tough love, Dean. He’s older than the both of us put together, time in hell included. He can figure things out on his own, okay? He doesn’t need a babysitter, and you can leave him alone for five freakin’ minutes.”

Dean stops in his tracks and whips around, Sam almost walking right into him.

“Oh, really?” he hisses, “Because it hasn’t even been five minutes and he’s disappeared.” Dean starts walking again, quick, light treads through the yard. “This is one of those things where it’s not really about what we’re talking about, is it? You projecting or something? Is there something you want to say to me?”

“Definitely not right now, but yeah,” Sam clarifies, “But really, in regards to Cas, you’re suffocating him.”

“He’s not my fuckin’ kid, okay?”

“ _Exactly_.”

They both stop short, however, when they come around to the back of the town hall and see the buttery light spilling out of the door that was left open just a sliver.

***

Cas slips through the halls as quietly as possible, doing his best not to raise any alarms.

He just needs to _talk_ to them. He needs to get a read, to figure out what they want.

What he really needs, however, is to apologize.

The carpet is old and there are crunchy spots, depending on where he steps. It is hard beneath his feet. Cas thinks, this is not how an angel walks.

He walks down walls that are panelled with dark wood, and thinks about how he played at being god. He’s wearing one of Dean’s old plaid shirts today, with a thrift shop t-shirt and jeans. They’re ratty at best, and Cas thinks, this is not how a god dresses.

He’s potentially walking to his death, and he thinks, this is not how a human chooses to die.

As it turns out, he just can’t do anything right. Naomi had said he had a crack in his chassis, and he thinks it’s an accurate assessment. It seems like his potential to be _anything_ has leaked out of that crack over the years, leeched away like salt water eats away at the bluffs in the name of nature, erosion an inevitable conclusion. He’s been eked out, emptied, spirited away. He is going to die soulless, graceless, nothing.

He doesn’t realize he’s walked into the main hall until he’s pushing aside a curtain and staring at almost two hundred shocked faces.

He recognizes none of them, but from the sound erupting in the room, he believes they have recognized him.

There’s an older woman standing behind the podium a couple feet away, wearing a powder blue, conservative suit. She’s staring at Cas with eyes as wide as dinner plates, her mouth half fallen open.

“Castiel,” she breathes, and Cas can barely hear her over the rising din in the room.

He cautiously moves towards the podium, and with every step he takes, she takes one back. She’s afraid of him.

In that moment, he realizes that no one knows. None of his siblings know what he did. They don’t know he’s human. To the majority of them, the last time they heard of him, he had razed heaven, destroying thousands of them in the process. They don’t know what’s happened since then; Naomi, Metatron, those who Crowley has managed to buy.

The closer Cas gets to the microphone, the quieter the crowd gets. The woman in the blue suit has disappeared from the stage, and Cas is suddenly under the spotlight. Without meaning to, he’s become another mouthpiece for another war. However these next couple minutes go, he’s shown his hand by showing his face. Word is going to get out.

Hesitantly, he taps on the microphone, and the sound bounces throughout the room. He sees them wince.

“Hello,” he says, voice echoing throughout the room, the microphone scratchy and uncooperative. “I apologize for, uh, interrupting your meeting. Some of you may know me. My name is Castiel.”

At his confirmation, a whisper ripples through the crowd, like the after effects of dropping a pebble into a lake. He hears his own name come back to him, as if he’d thrown it into the crowd like a boomerang he’s unprepared to catch on its way back around.

He hasn’t really thought this far ahead, to be honest. He’s staring into a sea of faces that are impossible to read, and he wonders if Machiavelli was right. Does he want to see fear on their faces? Or is he here for a more humble reason, to explain himself? Plans for information gathering flit away from him without his notice.

He opens his mouth, and is just as curious as the audience to find out what he is going to say.

 “I just wanted to say-” he begins, and he’s not sure what’s happening, because his tongue is turning leathery again, all the saliva in his mouth is drying up. Just like when he was hearing Louise’s story. He finds himself scanning the audience, wondering how many families have been broken up because they couldn’t bother to find someone else, or because they refused to remain incorporeal.

But they’re scared, as well. He tries not to think of them as children, since all of them have existed longer than any human could comprehend, but to see them sitting in front of him, stiff and uncomfortable in new bodies, it’s a pervasive thought, regardless.

Humans don’t punish children when they react out of fear; they explain. They educate.

He clears his throat, still, horrifically unsure.

“I just wanted to say-,” he repeats, but is interrupted by the sound of a door slamming somewhere down the hall.

“Cas!” he hears Dean shout, and then Sam calls out as well. He listens to their footsteps sprinting down the hall, and doesn’t have time to react before Dean and Sam both burst through the curtain dramatically.

“ _Ca_ \- oh, shit,” Dean says, as he sees that they’ve just completely blown their cover. The angels seem stunned, and another intense murmuring goes through the crowd, although no one gets out of their chairs.

“What the hell, man?” Dean asks, as he drags Cas over to the side by the elbow, Sam fearfully keeping an eye on the still buzzing audience. “We got t-minus two minutes before we start the recording, and we’re supposed to be backing up Tracy and Louise, not fucking giving an inspirational speech to the masses.”

“I-” Cas watches Sam watch the audience in fear, watches the audience watch him with the same fear. “I can’t,” he admits.

Dean shakes his head, and puts a hand on Cas’ shoulder blade, turning them, making sure their backs are to the audience.

“There are people in there,” Dean says methodically, sounding very much like he’s trying not to lose his temper, “I know you feel bad about this whole thing, but we can’t just-”

Cas shrugs him off harshly, and is surprised to find himself right in Dean’s personal space, feeling protectiveness flare in his gut.

“Yes, we can _just_ ,” Cas snaps, and Sam desperately looks like he wants to tell them to quiet down, “Don’t you think I’ve put my family through enough? Most of my brothers and sisters haven’t been on earth in thousands of years. Some of them haven’t even seen the surface in that long.  I can’t just cast them out. These people were willing vessels, Dean, or they couldn’t be possessed otherwise.”

“You’re not thinking clearly, Cas, we have no idea what they’re capable of, or what they want. I can’t imagine they’re all too happy with you right now.”

It must show on Cas’ face, because Dean makes a surprised sound in the back of his throat.

“They don’t know it was you,” he marvels. “You think this is your chance for a clean slate.” He snorts, ugly, but Cas doesn’t miss the hurt that flashes momentarily across his features. It passes like a shadow across the sun. “You want to make nice with them again, after all the shit they put you through.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe it.”

Cas glances quickly at Sam, who’s pointedly not listening and keeping an eye on the crowd.

“How much ‘shit’ have you two put each other through, Dean?” He asks, inclining his head towards Sam’s turned back. “What makes you think I wouldn’t go through the same for my own family?” As if from another lifetime, he remembers the way he and Dean threw the word ‘family’ at each other like both an insult and a plea. It was meant to hurt, and Cas remembers it slicing him like a knife at the time.

He knows Dean is thinking of all the times Cas has killed one of his own, and he knows Dean could win this argument just by saying it. And yet he refrains.

“I know,” Cas says, quieter now, feeling the fight drain out of him. This is how it always seems to be between him and Dean. Most of the time they seem to be one contrasting ideal away from pure, objective opposites, and yet their fights crest together, and reach their denouement together. They’re on the same wavelength but moving in opposite directions. “I’m aware of the hypocrisy,” he continues, and just feels tired. He doesn’t want to beg, and he’s still not sure just what he _wants_ , in general.

“Cas, we can’t,” Dean says, like it pains him greatly. “We can’t give them the town. It’s not ours to give.”

“I know, I know, _I know_ ,” Cas agonizes, even though he really doesn’t.

“We need to go,” Dean tells him softly, “We don’t have much time.”

As if on cue, the hall doors are pulled open to let in the early afternoon sunlight, and Cas can see through to the square, where the cop car is parked dead center in his eyeline. His own voice booms from the speaker, and he can see Louise (who was the one who pulled open the doors) holding out the megaphone Sam found, her own phone pressed to the mouthpiece.

Not all of the angels seem to know what’s happening. A couple look around with big, frightened eyes, as if they mean to run, but aren’t sure where. Cas starts to feel the atmosphere in the room shift, and watches the hairs on his arm stand up. It prickles under his skin and a metallic taste settles heavily on his tongue as the spell starts its work. Even though he can’t sense it anymore, Cas knows it must be bending under the weight of all the angels it’s supposed to exorcize, despite the fact that this spell doesn’t manifest physically.

Some start to scream, like they’re being burned from the inside out, and Cas remembers the sensation of being ripped from his vessel against his will, like yanking a mouse off a glue trap. Dean and Sam both cover their faces with their forearms, but Cas waits till the last possible moment to do so. The woman in the power blue suit has fallen to her knees by the side of the stage, clutching her head and howling silently. Her high heels have been kicked off, and she’s rocking back and forth.

Cas watches their faces light up one by one, as their grace starts to shine and expand back into the atmosphere. Once he starts to feel his optic nerves burn, he shuts his eyes and moves an arm across his face as well. Obviously, whatever made Jimmy a vessel exited along with him.

Something hot is running down Cas’ cheek, and at first he thinks he waited too long, and one of his eyes has started to bleed. It’s only when he tastes salt on his lips that he realizes he’s crying.

The screams of his brothers and sisters are all around him, he can _smell_ them, and because he can’t do it alone, he blindly reaches out for something to hold onto. His hand comes into contact with Dean’s arm, and he grabs onto his wrist, holding for dear life. Dean pulls his hand away, and Cas only has a moment to panic, before Dean’s hand is scrabbling back, pressing their palms together and squeezing tightly. Cas swallows hard- he still hasn’t gotten used to feeling a lump in his throat- and they stand there, hands intertwined, as Cas’ siblings are burned out of their vessels and hurled back into the ether.

***

They leave in a hurry. The nature of the spell is such that the angels won’t be able to use these people as vessels again, but that won’t stop them from finding others. The people they leave behind are confused and afraid, but Cas knows hunters don’t stay around for the cleanup. They save the day and drive off into the sunset.

The only problem with that ending is that Cas isn’t sure what they did can be considered ‘saving the day’.

They meet up with Tracy and Louise again where they parked their cars early this morning, and Cas makes sure to shake Louise’s hand before they leave. He doesn’t apologize this time. He tries to accept the fact that there’s nothing he can do but accept her anger. She says her goodbyes to Sam and Dean, and climbs into Tracy’s van.

Tracy nods curtly at them, a little icier towards Sam and Cas, and follows Louise into the car. They drive off, and Cas notes that it’s still too early in the day for the sun to set.

Dean mutters something to Sam, who then announces he’s going to wait in the Impala.

“We need to talk about what happened back there,” he says once Sam’s shut the door. He walks over towards a small cluster of trees, Cas following reluctantly. “What was that?”

“I was trying to look out for them,” Cas says, “Like I haven’t been able to in a long time.”

Dean leans against a trunk and shoves his hands into his pockets. He puffs out his cheeks and lets out a breath.

“I’m not the best person to be giving familial advice,” Dean admits, “But you gotta know that they don’t- they don’t care about you like… other people.”

 Despite himself, Cas feels his countenance soften.

“I’m not trying to invalidate our relationship, Dean.”

Dean scrubs a hand over his jaw, frustrated.

“That’s not what I was trying to say,” he lies.

“Fine,” Cas allows, “But what I say still stands. Things are-” he hesitates, searching for the word, “complicated.” He reaches into his jacket and grabs the angel blade he never had to use. Because they were too stunned to even fight back. He hefts it, testing its balance. “We need to figure out how to get the angels back into heaven. Well, I do. I need to fix it.”

“ _We’ll_ fix it, Cas,” Dean corrects, and Cas nods gratefully. “This planet just isn’t big enough for the both of us,” he jokes weakly. Cas is surprised to find it in himself to take pride in understanding a reference.

Cas turns around to head back to the car, but Dean calls him back. He looks fairly uncomfortable, like he’s already spent his allotted minutes on emotion today. Cas’ hand twitches where he feels the ghost of Dean’s palm flush against his own.

“About what you said earlier,” Dean starts, “The whole soul thing with Louise…” he trails off, looking like he’s chewing on some choice words.

“What about it?” Cas asks, “I was just stating facts. I’m not sure why you felt like you had to fight me on it.”

“I sold my soul once,” Dean says, “I’m sure you remember that.”

An enormous understatement, but Cas nods along regardless.

“My soul was gone, under contract, whatever,” Dean’s flippant hand gestures are a complete contrast to the obvious discomfort he feels reliving this particular time in his life. “So what, was I not human for that year?” he asks, “Or what about when Sam was soulless? Cause you’re definitely not like that.” He pokes Cas in the chest, right where he can sometimes feel his heart beating after spending enough time taking his frustrations out on the punching bag in the bunker’s gym. “You’ve got something in there. You just gotta, I dunno, cultivate it or some shit.”

Cas smiles faintly, but he can’t extend that smile to his eyes.

“That’s a nice thought, but highly impractical. A soul isn’t a plant or an embryo. It doesn’t grow or participate in photosynthesis.”

Dean shakes his head, obviously not pleased with his answer.

“You can’t just think you’re walking around soulless, Cas. That doesn’t cut it for me. You’re human, no matter what you think. Got it?”

Dean’s passion is very much appreciated, but entirely misplaced. Cas doesn’t tell him that, though, because he’s eager to head back to the bunker soon, and is entirely exhausted.

“You don’t believe me,” Dean says, and laughs, empty.

“Why does this matter to you?” Cas asks, genuinely confused. “My being soulless, if anything, should bother me more than it does you.” That is _does_ , in fact, bother him, is an entirely separate matter.

Dean sputters, as if the last thing he expected was for Cas to ask him _that_.

“Because it just does,” he finally manages, looking very much like everything he wanted to say has instead bottlenecked on its way off his tongue.

“I can apologize, but that wouldn’t really do anything, unfortunately.” Cas turns, ready to leave again, when Dean calls out again.

“Just- Take mine, okay?”

Cas turns back around to find Dean obviously going through some sort of incredible internal battle.

“Take yours?” Cas double checks doubtfully. “Dean, you can’t just pledge your soul to someone. I’m also not sure you fully understand the implications-”

“This is important, Cas, okay? For whatever reason, it means a lot to me, so just take my fucking soul, alright? Like, symbolically, I mean. You don’t need to actually cut open my chest or anything.” He swallows heavily, and Cas watches his Adam’s Apple bob nervously. “Who cares, right? I mean, you pulled it out of hell, you might as well get a slice of the pie.”

“Um,” Cas says, floored. “Alright. Okay.”

Dean nods.

“Okay,” he says gruffly, “Okay, now that that’s settled, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

He heads back to the car, leaving Cas thoroughly flabbergasted and feeling slightly like he has whiplash.

***

They don’t get back to the bunker until just before midnight, and find Charlie in the exact same position they left her in. Kevin is sitting at the table, sitting with what seems to be half of the Supernatural books.

As soon as she hears the front door open, Charlie jumps up.

“Guys!” she calls, “C’mere, quick!”

She hears Dean groan, and considers throwing a book in his general direction, but ultimately decides against it; she’s been sitting in one position for too long, and throwing something even as light as a paperback book might be enough to dislocate her shoulder at the moment.

“All back in one piece,” she says, and the ever present worry that now permanently resides in her gut loosens a little, “Excellent.”

“Charlie,” Dean says quietly, “It’s been a really, really long day, and we just drove for twelve hours. This better be more important than memory foam.”

“It is,” Charlie promises, “At least, I think.”

She gestures to Kevin behind her, who refuses to look up from the book he’s reading.

“Kev and I have been working all day on this, and you guys, there’s something really wrong with these books.”

“Yeah,” Dean grumbles, “It’s a series of books about our lives that were written without our permission and sold for profit. Of course there’s something wrong with them.” He rubs his eyes, trying to alleviate the itch of tiredness for at least a couple more minutes.

“No,” Charlie says emphatically, “Well, I mean _yes_ , of course that was wrong, but that’s not what I was referring to.” She picks up Phantom Traveler again. “Christo,” she says, “You guys don’t say it anymore. _Why_?”

Sam and Dean shrug.

“This really isn’t the time-” Dean starts, but Charlie speaks over him.

“At first I just assumed it was artistic license, Edlund expanding on what he already knew to make it more interesting, y’know?” She shakes her head. “Nope. There’s some serious continuity errors in here, guys. Big stuff. Haven’t you ever read these?” She waves the book around, but Sam and Dean just shrug again.

“We already lived it,” Dean explains tiredly, “Why would we want to live it again in even worse writing?”

“There’s something wrong with these books,” she repeats, deadly serious. “I mean like, really wrong.” She bites her lip. “And I’ve been thinking about what’s happened after the books, too. After Swan Song. All the stuff you’ve told me. And it just… it doesn’t make sense. This is your _life_ ,” she says, “How can your life not make any sense?”

“Charlie, it’s late, okay? Maybe we just-”

“Dean, you’re not listening to me. This is important.” She tosses the book back onto the table and crosses her arms. “If my calculations are correct, you guys both have _years_ missing from your lives. And it’s not just that. There’s little things, like Christo and Henry Winchester. And there’s one scene in Lucifer Rising…” She shakes her head. “I’m not sure about that one yet, but this is big. This is Winchester plot centric stuff, okay? You guys are the bullseye here. Something’s going on.”

Dean tries to smile, but it falls flat.

“Well,” he says mildly, “Jesus Christo.”

No one laughs.


	5. Season Six

After passing out for seven hours in his room- which still fucks with his system, sometimes, because seven hours, really?- Dean wakes to find everyone converged in the library reading Winchester gospels from various points in their lives.

“Ugh,” Dean groans, and walks directly out again. He takes his time to make breakfast for everyone, before hollering himself half-hoarse to get them to migrate to the kitchen for a while. He’s really starting to consider purchasing- or maybe making his own- dinner bell. The bunker is just so damn _big_.

Everyone but Charlie enters the room empty handed. She has her nose stuck in one called Family Remains, and Dean doesn’t even try to figure out which hunt that could possibly be referring to.

“So?” Dean asks as he sets out plates of scrambled eggs and bacon, “Any new plot developments?”

Kevin rolls his eyes, but it’s a typical this-guy-has-no-idea-what-he’s-talking-about roll rather than an I-wish-you-were-dead roll, so Dean figures he’s cooled off from yesterday.

“It’s not that simple,” he says through a mouthful of bacon, as Dean brings the plate of toast to the table. “Do you know how many comic books I used to sneak-read under my covers as a kid? You want to talk retconning, you go read comics. It’s complicated.”

“It’s _fiction_ ,” Dean says pointedly, as he puts down the jug of orange juice. He pours everyone a cup of coffee, and distributes them appropriately. He and Kevin always drink it black, Sam takes his with a bit of cream, and Charlie with both sugar and cream. Cas rotates how he likes it on a seemingly random schedule. Today, it’s just black.

He slides into the open seat next to Charlie, with Cas across from him and Sam diagonal. Kevin sits at the head of the table, staring at his second strip of bacon in under a minute.

“Remember when I was vegan?” he asks no one in particular, and then takes another bite. He points the stub at Dean. “There’s some continuity for you.”

“So, what? Your forgotten veganism means another apocalypse?” Dean says around the rim of his coffee mug.

“I never said it was an apocalypse!” Charlie butts in indignantly. “I just said it was weird.”

“You said it was big,” Dean corrects.

“Semantics,” Charlie says testily. “Sheesh, why are you so against this? It’s just reading, it’s not like we’re going to clear out a double sized vamp nest.”

“Just reading,” Dean repeats, taking a too big bite of egg. He chews for a minute, then swallows hard. “Is exactly the problem. It’s not like we don’t have a million other things on our plate right now.” He ticks them off on his fingers. “Abaddon, Metatron, closing the gates of heaven and hell, the fallen angels, need I go on? Sure, the book thing is weird, but there’s no timeline on that. If Abaddon gets bored enough, she could nuke half the world by tomorrow morning.”

“Well, actually, you don’t have to do any of those things,” Charlie retorts. “You’ve made them your mission when they don’t have to be. You aren’t bound to this shit, you know.”

“Charlie, we were right on the edge of closing hell forever,” Sam says seriously, “And we didn’t.” He bites the inside of his cheek. “We should’ve,” he says lowly. “It would have gotten rid of Abaddon, Crowley, and every one of their damn soldiers.”

“Don’t start this again, Sam,” Dean warns, “We said we’d figure a way out that’ll keep us both alive, and we _will_.”

“Yeah, no, I know,” Sam says, not sounding convinced.

Dean gives him a long look, but doesn’t push it.

“We’ve also gotta figure the heaven thing out,” he says, now talking to Cas. “Gotta get the feathers back on the bird and all that.”

Cas squints at him.

“Is that a saying? I’ve never heard it before.”

“Uh,” Dean takes a drink of coffee and stuffs some toast into his mouth. He makes a noncommittal noise around it and shrugs.

“That’s his way of saying no,” Charlie supplies helpfully, and Dean glares at her.

“ _Anyways_ ,” Dean clears his throat, “As you can see, Charlie, we’ve got our fair share of stuff to deal with. The books, as far as I can tell, don’t have a time limit on them, so we’ve got to prioritize.”

Kevin sighs.

“I can’t believe you guys prioritize your apocalypses,” he laments to his eggs.

“Okay, a couple of continuity errors or what the fuck ever do not count as an apocalypse,” Dean says irritably, “Lucifer counts as an apocalypse. Leviathans count as an apocalypse. Not some shitty book series that can’t remember christo.”

“ _You_ can’t remember christo,” Charlie grumbles at the same time Kevin scoffs and mumbles, “ _An_ apocalypse. Not _the_ apocalypse.”  

“Carver Edlund’s real name is Chuck Shurley,” Sam finally gives in, and Charlie’s entire face lights up.

“Uh, _yeah_ , that’s pretty pertinent information.”

“We also haven’t seen him in over three years, or even talked to him,” Sam says, and her face falls. “As far as we know, there can only be one prophet, and since he’s sitting right here, well-” Sam grimaces, “Chuck is most likely dead.”

“That doesn’t make sense, though,” Charlie says, “Chuck and Kevin are both prophets, but Chuck wrote about you guys, and Kevin reads tablets. How come Kevin doesn’t get to dream about you killing werewolves at night?”

“Oh, dear god,” Kevin says, like the possibility of that happening is just too horrifying for him to even comprehend.

“All prophets have the same abilities.  However, depending on when the prophet is called for duty, their work will differ,” Cas explains, picking at his eggs. “Chuck was around for the era of the Winchester gospels. Had a demon tablet somehow fallen into his lap, he would have been able to read it. If the Winchester gospels were still relevant, Kevin would currently be having visions similar to the ones Chuck was having, along with his translation work.”

“Oh, man, the fun never stops being a prophet,” Dean says.

Breakfast finishes up pretty quickly after that, everyone drifting off back to the library. Sam is the last one to leave, but Dean stops him.

“So, what?” he asks, “Suddenly we should’ve closed hell?”

Sam looks uncomfortable.

“It certainly would have saved us a lot of trouble,” he says.

“Uh, yeah, and we also would have been down a Sam."

“Man, I don’t think that’s a good enough reason anymore,” Sam says, almost apologetically. “How many people have already died between the church and now, because we didn’t seal the deal when we could’ve?”

Dean shakes his head and turns away. He can feel Sam watching him with his damn sad puppy dog eyes, and it just makes him all the more frustrated as he starts clearing away the breakfast dishes.

“So, what, that light you saw at the end of the tunnel turned out to be a dud?” Dean places the dishes on the counter with much more force than necessary and the silverware clacks together unceremoniously. He turns on the tap and starts scrubbing the pan that he cooked the eggs in furiously.

“Dean.” Sam says evenly. Dean doesn’t answer, just turns the water hot enough to scald his knuckles. “ _Dean_.” Muffled by the sound of the tap, Sam moves towards the sink, and reaches around Dean to turn it off. He collapses into a chair at the table. Neither of them say anything for a moment.

Finally, Dean thrusts the pot back into the sink, ignoring the immense clanging that accompanies it. He puts a palm over his eyes for a moment, trying to gather himself.

“Look,” he says, “Cas is barely hangin’ on here. Kevin’s so pissed at us he can hardly look at us anymore. I can’t lose you on this one, Sam. We agreed in that church that we’d work _together_ to find a way to close the gates. You’ve paid your dues, okay? You’ve don’t need to feel bad for not jumping in front of another bullet.”

Sam is looking at his hands in his lap, and Dean pulls the pot out of the sink and starts scrubbing just for something to do.

Finally, Sam looks up.

“I’m not saying I agree with you,” he says, and Dean stops scrubbing mid swipe, “but if that’s the line you’re going to go with, you need to say ‘we’.”

“What?”

“ _We’ve_ paid our dues. _We_ don’t need to feel bad for not jumping in front of another bullet.”

Dean scoffs.

“That’s not what this is about. It’s my _job_ to jump in front bullets, got it? Your job, as already outlined, is to work towards the end of that damn tunnel.”

“No. No, no, no.” Sam stands up to his frankly intimidating full height of six four, but all Dean can see is a five year old Sam arguing with him because he doesn’t want to go to bed yet and crying because he wants to go home. Later, Dean will find out that Sam doesn’t even really know what ‘home’ is; only that he saw someone say it on tv when they were sad.

“How about I make you a deal?” Sam asks, “The terms are pretty fair, I think.”

Dean looks like he’s rolling his eyes with his whole body. “Sure,” he says, “Lay it on me, Sammy.”

“I’ll start searching for this light again,” Sam promises, “So long as you consider an alternate career choice.”

“ _What_?”

“Your job can’t just be to die, Dean. Not for me, not for the cause. You talked me out of it at the church, and now I need _you_ to talk yourself out of it.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” Dean says, if only because the concept of ‘self’ is one that Dean’s never really grasped. “What’s the point of having a body if I can’t dramatically dive in front of someone to take a bullet for them, huh?” it’s not his best delivery, but it’ll do.

Sam shakes his head disbelievingly.

“The scary thing is that you’re not joking,” he marvels.

“Considering the current predicament, I don’t think you have a leg to stand on,” Dean informs him heatedly. “You’re the one who wanted to peace out not just a few weeks ago ‘for the cause’.”

“Well then consider this a truce,” Sam offers. “A truce where we both agree to take suicidal tendencies off the table.”

Dean shrugs, feigning nonplussed.

“I’ll make sure not to accidentally tie my tie on my fed suit too tight,” Dean says crassly, turning back to the sink to finish the dishes. He hears Sam sigh behind him, the scrape of his chair, and retreating footsteps.

When he’s sure he’s alone, he allows himself to smile slightly. This’ll be good for Sam.

He finishes the dishes, and watches intently as his skin wrinkles in the dishwater and turn pink from the heat.

***

Dean finds himself in the war room later, staring at his laptop screen as if it holds the answers to the universe, when in reality he’s scrolling through pages and pages of pet supplies on ebay. Maybe they really should get a dog. Or a cat, since at least they can take care of themselves if him and Sam are out on an extended hunt. He doesn’t mind taking Benadryl if he has to.

He’s not alone for long, however, as Charlie pops in just as he’s starting on page thirty-two.

“Hey,” she greets, taking the seat across from him and gently kicking him in the shin under the table.  “How’s it going?”

“Peachy,” he grunts.

“Oh, wow, no kidding.” She leans forward onto her elbows, and Dean can practically hear the favor she’s about to ask. “So I was thinking…”

“That you want to talk to Chuck?” he finishes, without looking away from a really interesting scratching post that’s caught his attention. He could put in a bid… “Because he’s most likely dead or so far underground he’s come out the other side.”

“Where’s the harm in at least, I dunno, visiting his old place?” Charlie insists, “Poke around, maybe, get a lead? He was your friend, wasn’t he? Don’t you want to see him again, or at least find out what happened to him?”

“I think ‘friend’ is kind of a strong term. He definitely didn’t think that highly of us.”

“Consider it a favor?” Charlie continues to wheedle, “C’mon, Dean, I’m Extremely Invested now. Capital Letters and all.”

“Eugh, fine.” Dean shuts the laptop on his scratching post dreams for now, and stands up, stretching out. “It’s going to be a long drive,” he warns her, “And I’m choosing the music.”

Charlie puts her hands up in surrender.

“You’re the boss.”

***

Castiel listens to the front door close from where he’s sitting in the observatory, and contemplates the implications behind Dean’s soul.

The nature of souls is a complicated one, no doubt. Had he still been an angel when Dean offered it to him, Dean could have easily walked into something he wasn’t prepared for. Luckily for Cas, were he still an angel, Dean would never have pledged a piece of his soul to him regardless, so the whole point is moot.

As it stands right now, it’s merely a symbolic gesture.

Cas, frankly, isn’t sure that Dean can really afford to give away anymore pieces of himself, but that just makes him all the more determined to protect what _is_ left. He had almost offered to tag along with Dean and Charlie, but decided against it at the last moment for fear of crowding them.

Not to mention the fact that he’s been feeling _off_ , since leaving Beaver Bay yesterday. He supposes it shouldn’t really come as a surprise, since he got to betray his siblings _again_. He fears if he ever runs into any of their new vessels, they won’t be so taken aback this time.

It reminds him of what Dean said a while ago, about family not always equalling obligation. But does that change if he’s the perpetrator of something as traumatic as ripping angels from their vessels? Does it change if he did the right thing?

He’s been down the path of good intentions before, and back then, he and Dean were walking opposite directions. Now, however, he can’t decide if Dean is leading him further down the road, or bringing him back out entirely. The most frightening thing, though, is that how much he cares is very up in the air right now. He finds himself, as almost human or entirely human- whatever he is- _wanting_ so much more than he ever has before. _Before,_ things were easier, were cut and dry with easy to parse out causes and effects. Since his fall, though, it’s all been shaken up; he can’t always think straight from Point A to Point B anymore. His limbs distract him and his train of thought often derails without his express permission. He imagines trying to lead a garrison in his current state, and the thought is so ludicrous he almost laughs out loud.

He’s not sure being alone is a good idea right now. He goes to seek out Kevin to play some video games. Perhaps Sam will join them as well.

***

“It’s a good thing we don’t have a million other things we could be doing right now,” Dean gripes as they merge onto Route 36 just outside of Lebanon.

“Yeah, like looking at pet supplies,” Charlie counters.

“How in the hell could you possibly-”

“I’m psychic.”

“Charlie.”

“Ugh. It was reflected in the mirror behind you.”

“You’re such a creeper.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Dean spends the next twenty minutes trying to remember if there is actually a mirror in the war room.

“You realize we’re going to Ohio, right? Halfway across the country on a hunch when we have the king of hell in our basement.”

“Yeah, about that…” Charlie’s expression turns serious. “What are your plans for him, anyway?”

Dean shrugs.

“Let him stew, I guess. We might sweat him at some point for info on how to kill Abaddon or where Linda is. Any other demon related issues that pop up, he’s our guy.”

Charlie nods, but Dean can see that she’s not satisfied with that answer.

“What?” he asks, “You got a better idea?”

“Well…” she hedges, “I kind of agreed with Kevin’s idea.”

Dean turns to look at her disbelievingly, and Charlie keeps an eye on the road for the both of them.

“You think we should just _give_ Crowley to Abaddon?”

“You said yourself, Dean, he’s leverage! Make that deal with Abaddon. Tell her to fuck off for the next couple centuries while she plays with Crowley and runs her campaign downstairs. It’s two birds with one stone.”

“Crowley knows a lot of things about a lot of things,” Dean tells her, “As much as it pains me to say this, we’ve known the guy for years. He’s useful.”

“Crowley is scum,” Charlie crosses her arms petulantly.

“I know.”

***

In fact, Cas finds Kevin and Sam sprawled in various positions in the living room, already in the middle of watching a movie he doesn’t know the name of. Onscreen two men are (he thinks the term loosely) dancing to music they keep insisting is electro.

Sam and Kevin invite him to sit down, and he watches the entire movie in silence, surprised whenever he recognizes a recurring theme. For instance, the electro record that got thrown out the window is later used as a weapon against a pair reanimated corpses (“That. The Z word. Don’t say it!”), and people keep informing the main character that he’s got red on him, even though initially, the red was pen ink, and later, people are commenting on the blood he’s gotten all over himself.

After the movie ends, Sam and Kevin discuss the use and importance of continuity in media.

“So it’s about being cyclical,” Cas surmises, “Audiences enjoy it when things come full circle.”

Sam and Kevin nod.

“It’s about the closure,” Kevin explains, “Since you don’t always get it in real life, it’s nice to get everything tied up in the movies. Dangling plot threads are a cinematic no-no.”

“The pub was at first seen as a place the hinders the main characters, something that holds them back, but by the end of the film they’ve readily accepted its presence into their lives,” Cas parses out slowly. He had asked Sam if he had chosen the movie based on the name of the bar, but Sam had just laughed.

“Yup,” Sam nods, “They decided to be happy with what they had. Sometimes after an event like that, things really get put into perspective.” A wistful look takes over his face, and he stands up quickly. “I’m going to go attempt to cook some lunch. You guys want me to cook enough for you?”

Cas is about to say yes when he catches Kevin frantically shaking his head behind Sam’s back, so Cas ends up saying a strange combination of yes and no.

“Uh- no thank you,” he finally says, and gets a thumbs up from Kevin.

Sam gives him a strange look, but leaves without comment. Cas looks to Kevin for an explanation.

“You haven’t been here long enough to know,” Kevin informs him, “But the only food you can trust around here is Dean’s. Sam made me pancakes once and we spent the next couple days in bed because the egg in the batter didn’t get cooked properly. I mean, Sam’s got, like, an iron stomach or something. He could probably eat anything. But the rest of us need to watch out for each other, yeah?” He stands up and pats Cas on the shoulder, before heading out. Cas finds himself smiling fondly after him.

He nestles himself back into the couch, and clicks play. He wants to see the whole movie this time.

***

**Kripke’s Hollow, Ohio**

Chuck’s house… looks like crap.

It’s not like it was an architectural marvel in its heyday, but this place is more rundown than Bobby’s at its messiest and most derelict. The grass is overgrown and the bushes have gone untended for what looks like years. All the small trees on the lot are long dead. There’s a for sale sign on the lot that looks like it’s being reclaimed by nature, braches and gnarls curling over it like an overprotective cat.

It’s strange, because Chuck’s house isn’t exactly in a terrible neighborhood. In fact, this street is almost downright present, minus the fact that the house they’re currently standing in front of has probably spawned hundreds of ghost stories, and likely even more calls to the city to complain.    

“We’ll definitely find Chuck here,” Dean enthuses sarcastically. “Great idea, Charlie!”

Charlie, however, ignores him and pulls out her cell phone. She dials a number and holds it to her ear, and as she’s talking to whoever it is on the other end, Dean makes his way up the creaky steps. Every time they’d been here, the mailbox had always been stuffed full like Chuck hadn’t bothered to check it for days. Now, however, it’s practically bursting at the seams. Old, yellowed newspapers stick out of the box, and a couple of flyers for various electronics stores and shopping centers are stuck to the porch with god knows how much debris. Dean touches the corner of one of the newspapers to check for a date, and finds it all incredibly dated. The newest paper seems to be a year old at least, meaning someone called to cancel the service, or the service just decided to stop coming. Judging by what he’s seen so far, Dean guesses the latter.

Charlie soon joins him on the porch.

“I just talked to the realtor,” she says, “And wow, was he ever excited to talk to a potential buyer. According to him, everyone claims this place is cursed, but-” and here she adopts a heavy, cheesy southern accent that Dean doubts would fool even the most northern of folk, “-well golly gee, mister, I ain’t afraid of no little old curse!”

“Jesus,” Dean says, “And he bought it?”

Charlie smirks. “Hey, those LARPing skills aren’t for nothing. He’s coming over now to walk us through the house.”

Dean shakes his head. “Why would you even bother using the accent though? Now you’re going to have to talk like that for the entire walkthrough.”

Charlie blanches.

“Of course I thought of that,” she says, and then a snippy, “shut up!” that has Dean smirking until the realtor arrives.

***

Dean feels bad for Dan the retail man, who seems to have bit off a fair amount more than he can chew with regards to Chuck’s old house. Dan is a squat, cheerful blond man who seems to try to exude his merriment into every room they explore to make them seem nicer just by pure willpower alone, and Dean has to admit, he can work wonders.

“My boyfriend swore I’d never sell this house,” Dan chatters on cheerfully he leads them around the first floor, “But I told him, I said, I said right to him, ‘Frank, this house has _character_ , y’hear? And only those with great character are going to be interested.’ He adjusts his thick, horn rimmed glasses, and turns around to waggle a chubby finger at Charlie and Dean, “And you two, hoo boy do you two have some character. I can practically smell it comin’ off ya!”

In keeping with the stereotypical southern theme, Charlie does some weird curtsey thing that Dean can’t help but raise his eyebrows at, and says, “Why, thank you sir.” When Dan smiles and turns around again, she shoots Dean a helpless look, and Dean, not unkindly, elbows her in the ribs. Their cover story is that they’re step siblings looking for a home for their ailing mother, and they never even met until they were thirteen and their parents, both once divorced, married each other. When Dan asked about their difference in accent, Dean had smugly told him about growing up in Idaho, while Charlie probably furiously rolled her eyes somewhere in the background.

Dan’s in middle of walking them through the ‘laundry list’ of pros for the master bedroom, and Dean’s in the middle of calculating the plausibility of eventually getting a cons list, when Charlie’s phone makes a _ping_ noise. With an apologetic smile, she pulls it out of her pocket and stares at the lock screen. Horror slowly dawns on her face as she unlocks her phone and continues to read whatever it is. She swallows hard, and looks up, slowly, at Dean.

“Fuck,” she says, and at Dan’s surprised cough, she seems to remember herself and, in uncomfortably over the top bravado, cries, “Fiddlesticks! Sorry, Dan, peaches, we gotta run. Turns out there’s a there’s a bug in the bath! What a hoot, huh?” She rushes forward to give Dan a hug, who seems professionally flustered, and then drags Dean out of the room and down the stairs. “We’ll think about it!” she calls back up the stairs, and then continues to march Dean all the way back to the Impala.

“Aw, c’mon Charlie, Dan was nice. We should at least have thrown the poor sod a bone.”

“They’re publishing again,” she says, completely ignoring him. “And not just past when you went to hell, but _new_ stuff.”

“Whoa, whoa. What?”

“The Supernatural books,” she hisses, “I have friends on the messageboards, and one of them just messaged me. Apparently she found them on the new releases shelf in a bookstore in New York. What the hell, man?”

“That makes less than zero sense,” Dean retorts, but something uncomfortable is tugging at him. “Uh, what did this friend say about it? Like, where did they start off?”

Immediately, Charlie’s pitying him.

“It’s called Exile on Main Street,” she says hesitantly, “and, uh, apparently it starts just before Sam comes back from the pit.”

Dean feels something deep down and hidden start to rear its ugly head, and readily fights to keep it where it is.

“Oh,” he says.

Charlie knows the barest bones about Lisa and Ben. Dean thinks he might have half-drunkenly slurred the story to her one night, because the next morning, she just knew. He can see in the way she’s looking at him that she wants to say something, but he holds up a hand, stopping her. He remembers reading Route 666, reading about himself and Cassie and his casual outrage because Sam was in the room. It was weird, he thinks, reading their conversations in a book; like it was something fabricated, instead of something that used to- and still does, occasionally- mean so much to him. It’s… uncomfortable, at the least, to think this is happening again. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t remember a lot of his time at Lisa’s. For a long time, it was bottle after bottle and sleepless night after sleepless night, and then finally, a crash when he couldn’t handle consciousness anymore. He got himself together eventually, but it never really got easier.

Suffice to say, he’s not eager to relive how much he screwed them over.

“There’s no way this is Chuck,” he says, all business. “Dude’s been gone for years.”

“No, I agree with you,” Charlie says. “When I said I was going to the bathroom I snuck around a bit. From what I can tell- and I’m kind of a pro- that house really has been wiped clean.”

“Chuck’s bath robe is probably the thing that’s haunting this place,” Dean says, “That’s why no one is buying it.”

Charlie nods resolutely.

“Definitely not because the neighbors had to deal with Chuck and his screamy visions all the time. Or because an archangel almost completely destroyed his property a couple years ago. I’m sure there’s no stigma attached to this house at all.”

“Good point.” Dean starts the engine, and rumbles down the street. “So then who the fuck knows enough about us to start publishing again? And _why_? The apocalypse is over.” He glances at Charlie. “Are you sure this friend is legit?”

“Oh yeah. She’s a, um… big fan.”

“Her name wouldn’t happen to be Becky, would it?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Dean tries very hard on the long drive home not to think about that chapter in his life.

***

“Well,” Dean announces triumphantly as they walk into the bunker, “That was a dud.”    

Sam, Kevin, and Cas are in the library, and look up at Dean balefully.

“Beating Lucifer wasn’t enough for them, huh?” Sam asks from his seat. “Someone’s publishing more books?”

“How did you even-” Dean stops halfway down the stairs to turn around and point an accusing finger at Charlie, who shrugs.

“What? I sent a text. Saves the exposition.”

“Ugh. Fine, yeah, they’re publishing more books apparently. No big deal, right?”

Sam holds up the incriminating book, and Dean rolls his eyes despite the sick way his stomach lurches. That year was not a good one, and not even in the same way the apocalypse year wasn’t a good one. Exile on Main Street starts a year of Dean feeling stretched so thin he had started to uncoil in the middle, like a bungee cord that just gives up halfway through. It was the year he had something and lost it, and in retrospect realized he never really had it in the first place. It was the year Sam lost his soul and the year he learned the remaining members of his family were mostly raging douchebags. It was the year that Cas, well… From the look on Cas’ face, Dean figures he doesn’t need to bother dwelling on that, since the re-emergence of these books has obviously stirred up a fun ride of memories for Cas as well.

“Picked it up at a local comic book store,” Sam says ruefully, staring at the cover distastefully. “If they’re selling these things in Lebanon, they’re sure as hell selling them everywhere else.”

“Who would push a book series that’s been going on this damn long?” Dean asks. “We’re not the friggin’ Boxcar Children here.”

Sam opens the cover and turns through the first couple pages.

“I did some research on this publishing company. 5:24 Press is a total dummy, and all other names associated with it are fake. And yet they’re still apparently written by Carver Edlund.”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, not sure if the ache in his head is a migraine, a stress headache, or both.

“Cas, you’re sure Chuck can’t still be having visions?” he asks, if only because Cas should technically be the authority on these novels, even though he was just in the dark as them when they were still relevant. Lied to by his superiors and still forced to do PR for that trash; Dean retroactively feels bad for him.

“I’m sure,” Cas says. “So long as Kevin is exhibiting the abilities of the prophet, he is the one and only.”

Despite it being the answer everyone expected, Kevin’s face falls.

“Okay,” Dean says. “Okay, okay, okay.” He takes a breath, and then looks at Sam. “Can I talk to you in private?”

Sam follows him to the kitchen.

“Now’s really not the time to be playing-” Sam starts, but Dean interrupts.

“Can you handle it?” he asks, not interested in the banter for once. He can already feel himself fraying again, and he needs to be on his game to deal with every other fucking thing on their plate at the moment. “Can you deal with the book thing on your own for a while? Or, well, you and Charlie? Hell, take Kevin, too. Whoever you need.”

He’s not running away from his problems, not really. He’s just keeping them at a safe distance from himself. And also maybe moving very quickly in the opposite direction.

Sam’s just about to open his mouth when Dean starts again, cutting him off.

“I know there’s stuff you probably don’t want to relive from that time. Trust me, man, I know. If you want, we can just ask Charlie. She definitely seems eager enough.”

Sam’s face is speculative, like there’s something he’s desperately trying to figure out without wanting to let on he’s trying.

“No,” he says distractedly, “No, I still never really got the full rundown on that time. I’d like to know.”

Dean nods, resigned.

“All that soulless crap, you know you can’t blame yourself for it,” he says, as if saying it beforehand will somehow be more effective while Sam’s reading about how he mowed down civilian after civilian.

“I know. I think.” Sam still seems focused on something else, and Dean can’t imagine what’s more important in Sam’s big old brain right now than what they’re discussing.

“So you’re… sure you’re alright with this?” Dean double checks. “I mean, we’ve got a lot of other stuff to deal with so I can keep an eye on that while you work the book angle.”

“Oh,” Sam says, like he’s finally got it, “So that’s why you aren’t working with the books.”

“Uh. Yeah.” He scoffs. “C’mon, Sam, I don’t like research, but I’m not just gonna go frolic in a meadow while you do all the heavy lifting. We just split the load is all.”

“Right, yeah, of course,” Sam says reasonably. “And this in no way has to do with how vulnerable you feel every time one of us cracks open one of those novels.”

Dean sputters for too long after that, if only because of getting caught off guard, and Sam gets that smug ‘I knew it’ look that always makes Dean want to switch out his toothpaste with shaving cream.

“I get why you’re nervous for people to read the new ones, okay?” Sam says, softer. “It’s okay to feel violated—it’s a pretty fucking violating situation.” He laughs blackly and runs his hands through his hair. “I guess I’m just used to it by now, huh?”

Dean doesn’t know what to say. He also doesn’t know how to tell Sam that he’s wrong- sort of. As much as he may try to hide it, Dean’s heart has managed to fixate itself on his sleeve more determinedly than a dog on a bone, and he’s more or less learned to live with that- to an extent. Like, okay, fine, the novels got him. He cares about his family a whole fucking lot. He’ll do anything for Sam and Bobby and Cas. So sue him.

But the idea of reliving that time in his life; he can’t do it. And he certainly hopes to god that whoever is publishing these stops at the end of that year, because if he has to start hearing about Cas walking into that lake, and Sam’s broken wall, and Bobby dying, he’s not sure he’s going to make it. He barely- _barely_ \- made it through all that the first time. These last few years have been like rolling around in broken glass, and having to go through it all again is just salt in those gaping wounds.

Sam is obviously of stronger constitution than him, or maybe he looks at this whole situation differently. Academically. Sam has always been better in that respect, being able to step away from the problem, and assess, whereas Dean tends to turn into a walking, human shaped mess of emotion that can’t separate feeling from reality. Sam is the one who’s been fighting for bodily autonomy his whole life, and yet here’s Dean practically crying about it like a baby because he doesn’t want his feelings to get hurt again.

“We just-” Dean stops, thinks on it. “We just need to push through, I guess.”

“Like always.” Sam grimaces, and pats his shoulder before leaving the room. At the doorway, he pauses and turns around. “We’ll be fine,” he says, with the fakest looking smile Dean’s ever seen, but he somehow manages to dredge up his own awful fake smile in return.

He stands alone in the kitchen for a few minutes, trying to focus himself. If the books aren’t his problem anymore, then he has everything else to figure out. He knows Cas will want to work with him on this, dealing with the fallen angels and finding Metatron, and the ever elusive topic of the possibility of getting his grace back. No one’s brought it up once, and Dean has no idea how to broach the subject. He figures he’s got to wait for Cas to say something before making any assumptions.

Speaking of, Cas pokes his head around the doorway.

“Apparently you’ve been delegating.” He walks into the room proper, leaning his hip against the counter, body turned towards Dean’s. The space between them is minimal, but it’s been like that for so long now Dean doesn’t even categorize it as weird anymore.

“Sam really doesn’t mince words, huh?” Dean hesitates, fiddling with a stray dishtowel by the sink, twisting it up in knots. “Did he say why?” he asks quietly, not looking at Cas.

“No,” is all he says, but when Dean looks up to meet his gaze, Cas is looking at him all soft eyed and understanding, so Dean’s pretty sure he gets it. Not that he particularly wants Cas to get it, but hell, Cas seems to be the only person he doesn’t have to _be_ something for. It’s almost automatic by now, to want to talk it out with him. Whether it be from all those prayers in Purgatory, or residual fear from Naomi’s mind control, it doesn’t matter. Dean finds himself opening up to Cas about things, and how ironic that he’s thinking about this while discussing his vulnerability with regards to the novels.

“I feel like a shit hunter and an even worse brother for dumping this on Sam,” he admits, staring adamantly at the dishtowel again. It’s a white and yellow checked thing, a remnant of the last occupants of the bunker. They really have to get more dishtowels, but shit like the impending apocalypse always seems to get in the way. He’s got a hand on either end, twisting it like the reverse opening of a Werther’s. “Look at the other shit we’ve faced, and I draw the line at a series of books? It’s fucking thin skinned is what it is. Fucking cowardly-”

Cas reaches out and grips the middle of the towel, forcing Dean to stop knotting it.

“You need to understand that it’s okay to ask for help,” Cas says firmly, keeping a hand on the towel. Dean still has his hands on either end, and it’s like a bizarre game of tug of war. “Sam is a grown man, and will tell you if he’s uncomfortable working with them. Just like you told him.” He gently tugs the towel out of Dean’s grip, having to use his other hand to pry Dean’s fingers off it, like a child who refuses to let go of their favorite stuffed animal before bath time. He folds it up into a small square, and puts it back on the counter. “You also need to understand that it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he continues intently, and Dean thinks Cas has edged a little closer. Or maybe he’s edged closer to him. Regardless of who did the inching, Cas’ hand gripping the lip of the sink is close enough to Dean’s that he can feel the heat emanating off it. He’s momentarily distracted by the image of Cas’ hand and his, twined together yesterday as they listened to the angels leaving their vessels. He comes out of it when Cas says, completely seriously, “Being a sensitive soul isn’t something to be ashamed of, either. The world is a better place just by virtue of you standing upon it.”

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean mumbles, feeling his face grow hot. This is veering very quickly into ridiculous territory. “I just needed a ‘ra ra shish boom ba’ pep talk. Not a fuckin’ poem.”

Cas’ forehead creases.

“That wasn’t a poem,” he says, “And I think half of that sentence was gibberish.”

Dean slaps a hand to his face, letting it drag all the way down to his chin while groaning a lamentation to the pop culture gods just because he knows how much it annoys Cas. Indeed, Cas’ eyes do that squinty thing they do, and Dean grins inwardly in triumph.

“It’s a _cheerleading_ thing, Cas,” Dean explains.

“I didn’t know you used to be a cheerleader,” Cas says, deadpan.

“That’s not what I- y’know what? Never mind. You win.”

Cas’ smugness is short lived, however, as they come back to the reality of the conversation.

“You have to go easier on yourself,” Cas says softly, hand back to its original position, gripping the edge of the sink and a mere hair’s breadth away from Dean’s fingertips. It would be so easy…

“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugs, “I never really learned how.”

Cas’ face falls at that, and as if on impulse, he reaches out and lays a palm on Dean’s bare forearm. Maybe it’s the fragility of the moment, but Dean immediately has to fight the urge to tear his arm away, has to tell himself that this is a good touch. As sad as it is, he has to get even more specific and tell himself, this is a good touch from Cas, because there have been many touches from Cas that haven’t been good.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his grip tightens for a moment before disappearing entirely. It’s such a small snippet, but Dean clings to it like the last days of summer when the crispness of autumn is just settling in the air.

 “So I guess you’re on board, then?” Dean asks, trying to switch back to business mode, and failing miserably. “I assume you want to kick Metatron in the dick more than all of us combined, and get your family back upstairs as soon as possible.”

Cas smiles sadly.

“Of course, Dean,” he says.

***

They go down to the dungeon to see Crowley, Sam joining them. Crowley’s growing a fine set of whiskers, and Dean feels a vindictive pleasure every other morning when he shaves off his own stubble. Also of note, (though probably not) demons can still grow hair.

“Haven’t seen you boys in a while,” he says cheerfully, shackles jangling as he waves jovially at them. “Goodness, you really have pulled out all the stops for little old me,” he says from his seat in the most uncomfortable chair Dean could find.

 “Can it, custard breath,” Dean says, and Crowley raises a brow.

“Oh, Squirrel,” he waggles a finger, tutting, “Gruff demeanour, wan visage. You’ve just been talking about feelings, you little scamp.”

“I’ve got feelings, all right,” Dean confirms, “Most of them at the moment about how best to get better acquainted with what exactly makes you tick.”

“If you wanted to read my diary you just had to ask,” Crowley simpers. “Got it all right up here.” He taps his temple with a finger, and starts reciting, “Dear diary, Dean Winchester looked at me today and I felt a funny little tingle right below my-”

“Enough,” Sam cuts in, while Cas looks on mildly, “We’re just here to test a theory.”

“Yeah? Does that theory involve business management because I think dear old Cas here could benefit from that better than I ever could.”

“Shut the fuck up, douchebag,” Dean snaps, and shares a look with Sam, who nods.

“Christo,” he says curtly, and Crowley’s eyes immediately turn black. He laughs delightedly, but Dean can see how pissed he is underneath all the pomp.

“Where’d you learn that?” he taunts, “some puffed up jumper’s book in the dusty old library? Or did it just sound sexy?”

“Christo,” Dean says again, just to piss him off. “Bye, Crowley.”

They leave.

***

“I still don’t know what the point of that was,” Cas says, back in the library. “We know it works.”

Dean shrugs.

“It was kinda fun pissing him off though.”

Sam doesn’t argue, just takes a seat at the table.

“So me and Charlie figure we ought to check into some of the names associated with the new book,” he explains. “Kevin said he wanted to go over something from one of the older ones, and I think Charlie is helping with that as well. I mean, I except most of them to be a dud, just like the publishing company, but,” he shrugs, “Gotta start somewhere, I guess.” He surveys Dean and Cas, both standing behind chairs. “What about you guys?” he asks.

Dean and Cas share a look, and both shrug their shoulders.

“I dunno,” Dean says, “but we’ll figure something out.”

“Actually,” Cas says, looking at Sam eagerly, “I think I might have a potential lead for you, Sam. Where’s Kevin?”

“Kevin!” Dean bellows, and both Sam and Cas put their hands over their ears.

“Jesus, Dean,” Sam complains, “A little warning would have been nice.” Dean waves him off and shouts again. Eventually, Kevin emerges from whichever corner of the bunker he was hiding in.

“What?” he asks sourly, voice puffy with sleep.

Both Dean and Sam turn to Cas.

“Since you’re helping Sam and Charlie with investigating the books,” Cas says, “There might be something else you can do as well.”

“Oh, goody,” Kevin says sarcastically, collapsing into his favorite bean bag chair. “You need a kidney or something? Please, feel free.”

“We don’t want your kidney,” Cas says with such conviction that Dean almost laughs. “But you are a prophet, and I think we might be able to use that to our advantage.”

“And how is that?” Kevin asks sceptically, “because I don’t think I’ve been much help to guys, really. Anyone could have translated those tablets.”

“No,” Cas says, “Only a prophet could do that, and you are the only prophet in the world right now.”

Dean takes pity on Cas this time round and mumbles, “sarcasm” into his ear.

“Oh.” Cas draws himself up short. “Regardless, Chuck was your predecessor, and since all prophets share a certain, ah,” he searches for the right word, “gene, I suppose, and you also share low level telepathic abilities, such as visions, I believe, should we use whatever enhancers we can, you might be able to find Chuck, assuming he’s not dead. Like a tracking spell.”

Dean’s face lights up.

“Dude, that’s awesome!”

Kevin glares at him.

“This sounds like a lot more migraines.”

“Well,” Cas shifts uncomfortably, “I can’t speak to the physical discomforts, but we can make sure you’re made as comfortable as possible given the circumstances. All you would need to do is tap into the frequency that only prophets operate on, and reach out. It may take time, but should you apply yourself, I believe it’s doable.”

Kevin shakes his head slowly.

“Sure, why not,” he says flatly.

“Excellent,” Cas says crisply, and looks at Dean. “We’ll need to go into town and pick up a few things.”

“Right, yeah,” Dean heads towards the stairs. “May as well go now. No time like the present.”

Sam moves forward to clamp a comforting hand on Kevin’s bony shoulder.

“Thanks for doing this,” he says sincerely. “Like, seriously. Thanks.”

“You’re a rock star, Kev!” Dean calls as he and Cas head outside.

Kevin takes a deep breath.

“I’m a rock star,” he says. “Yeah.”


	6. The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost

The summer drags on, and their cases drag with it. Charlie calls it a hiatus, and everyone rolls their eyes.

“The Olympics aren’t on this year, are they?” she muses to herself.

Kevin spends more days than not holed up in his room, still trying to make some sort of contact with Chuck.

“I think I’m getting something,” he had said on the third day of trying. By the time mid-August rolls around, he still claims to be getting ‘something’. “More than migraines,” he promises, “I swear.” He has his own personal stash of Tylenol now. “Sometimes I miss the good old days of the tablets,” he laments often, “they were more exciting than the flashes of ugly bathrobe I’m getting.”

When they get frustrated with their lack of progress, they take a couple simple cases where they can find them; a selkie in Maine, a hidebehind right on the Canadian border, and a particularly terrifying encounter with a hoop snake in Wisconsin- it’s a lot faster than any of them expect it to be, and having a snake rolling after them down the dusty backroads of Wisconsin is a picture none of them are going to forget anytime soon. Luckily for them, Cas is getting quite good with a gun and manages to get a twofer as he shoots it through the head and stinger while it’s in the process of swallowing its tail. It’s the first time in a long time Dean’s done a victory jump after wrapping up a case.

They aren’t so prolific on their own specific cases, however. Cas has decided he can’t work in any kind of extreme weather, and the heat wave that hits halfway through August sidelines him for about a week and a half. The buzzing of all the fans they had to buy him can be heard down to the end of the hall, and it takes everything within Dean to convince him to keep his boxers on as he sprawls across his bed, sheets mucked up around him, dead to the world except for the ruffling of his hair.

Dean brings him lemonade, making sure to knock loudly on the door before making his entrance. Cas isn’t big on privacy, but the last thing Dean needs to walk in on is something that’s going to be seared onto his eyelids for the next forty years. The glass is sweating in his hand, or maybe that’s just his hand. If the bunker has air conditioning, it’s either defunct or incredibly broken or incredibly shitty.

Cas’ room is nice, though. Still worryingly bare, but at least it’s cooler than the rest of the house. The lights are off, the only glow in the room being the blue of the alarm clock and the standing lamp with probably the tiniest wattage Dean’s ever seen.

“Refreshments,” Dean says with too much flourish for a glass of store bought lemonade. He means to make some fresh squeezed soon, but this’ll have to do for now.

Cas mumbles something into his bed as Dean puts it down on his nightstand.

“Yeah?” he says disinterestedly. “Well, whenever you’re ready, we’re doing actual work out in the library.”

Cas lifts his head with a moan that makes it sound like it’s been a great effort and stares at Dean with bleary eyes. He seems to be sleeping more lately, at least, even though his hours are almost completely backwards. His body clock must be so fucked up.

“What have you found?” he asks, voice scratchy with sleep. He stuffs his face back into the mattress.

“That’s not the point,” Dean says, only because he hasn’t found anything useful. He’s pretty sure Sam’s playing solitaire on his computer, and Charlie’s taken off for a couple days, determined to find a place with air conditioning. Kevin is who knows where, communing with nature or Chuck or something.

 Cas blindly reaches for the lemonade, almost knocking both the alarm clock and the glass over. Dean holds it playfully out of his reach for a moment, before giving in and handing it to him.  Cas sits up in the middle of the bed, crossing his legs, and treating Dean to a gluey stare. He holds the glass to his forehead.

“It’s still very hot,” he observes neutrally.

Dean averts his eyes, backing up into the chair he knows is just behind him. His calves bump into it, and he falls back into it. “You spent a lot of the time in the sky,” Dean says, looking anywhere but at Cas’ practically naked body. “You know how the weather works.”

Cas shakes his head, mouth twitching.

“That’s not how it works,” he takes a sip of the lemonade, holding the glass between his palms like it’s a mug of hot chocolate. “Theoretically, I understand how the weather works. I understand pressure systems and fronts. I understand forces of nature like hurricanes and earthquakes. Now, unfortunately, I have to actually experience it. It’s unpleasant.”

Dean nods, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair, focusing on the dents in the wood.

“We’ll have to spend next summer on the coast. Lot more temperate out there. Also cool water monsters.”

“That sounds nice,” Cas hums, taking another sip. His forehead creases.

“Cas?”

Cas shakes his head minutely.

“That reminds me of a dream I had the other night,” he says quietly, tracing a slim finger around the rim of the glass. “I was drowning.”

Dean lifts his gaze to Cas’, who, of course, is staring at him.

“It’s a common dream,” Dean says, carefully diplomatic, “A common fear.” Cas has been human for a few months now, but he still has trouble reading him sometimes. His posture has relaxed more, has become more comfortable like a t-shirt after it’s been through the wash a few times. His humanity drapes around him almost naturally, now, but there are still these moments, where Dean’s not sure what Cas wants from him. Or, more accurately, he’s not sure what he can offer Cas.

He’s not unaware. He knows there’s something weird between them, can feel it like it’s a sixth sense or something. His conversations with Cas feel charged, even if they’re about nothing more interesting than what’s playing on the tv screen at the time. But it’s so damn muddled, and then he’s left in situations like this, where he kind of loses his footing and he’s not sure why. It’s almost like they’re in a different kind of Purgatory this time, a symbolic Purgatory where they’re waiting for _something_ , just purposeless wandering until the main event. Dean just has no idea what said main event is supposed to be, and he thinks when the time comes, he still won’t know what to do, either. There could be a fucking neon sign flashing in front of his face and he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t know what to do.

“Dying feels different as a human,” Cas muses, “Even in a dream.”

“Yeah?” Dean prompts.

“As an angel- even at Stull- I could feel my atoms scattering, like marbles spilled onto the floor and rolling in every direction. I felt the pull of my vessel, the tear of skin and tendon and the dissolution of bone and cartilage. It hurt,” he confirms, “Quite excruciating, actually.” He nods, as if to himself, and despite the heat, Dean feels goosebumps rise on his arms. “But in my dream, it was different. I was panicking, of course. Thrashing around in the water, unable to locate the surface. I don’t think I was even being pulled down by anything, I had just… lost sight of the surface, of the light.” He continues to run a finger around the lip of the glass, and every couple turns, he’ll pull a sound similar to a wind chime out of it. He had startled at first, but seems determined to pull it out again. It’s like the wind blowing across a small opening in the cave, what the kids in the old stories always mistook for a ghost. “But it wasn’t the physical sensation of drowning, or the depleting air in my lungs that scared me the most.” His finger stops abruptly on the glass, and he starts tapping it instead, mirroring the movement of Dean’s fingers on the arm of the chair. “That I would never be able to play video games again, or learn how to drive, or say goodbye to anyone… But the worst was the fact that I would never get to see you again,” he admits, gaze practically burning a hole in Dean, and forget goosebumps, there’s a hot itch spreading through Dean now, his face flushed and palms clammy. He shifts in his chair, unsure of how to react.

“This makes you uncomfortable,” Cas says, almost immediately, and just like that, the spell is broken. “I’m sorry. It was a dream and I wasn’t able to control how I was feeling and I shouldn’t have mentioned it in the first-”

“Cas,” Dean says, semi recovered, “it’s fine, man. Nightmares happen. Sometimes you dream about losing your family, and it sucks. Trust me, I know.”

Cas looks like he wants to say more, but catches himself at the last moment.

“Okay,” he says instead, hesitant.

“Okay,” Dean repeats, as if they’ve just finished some kind of business meeting instead of digging a little too deep into each other. Maybe it’s a little overenthusiastic for what they were just discussing, but whatever. He slaps his palms down onto the arms of the chair as he pushes himself into a standing position. “I gotta go make sure Sam’s actually doing something. Last I left, he was getting his ass kicked in electronic solitaire.” He slaps Cas’ knee on the way out, the flesh warm and soft. “Come see us if you get bored of sleeping,” he says, and it’s about the most obvious tuck-tail-and-run situation ever, but he can’t really be bothered at the moment. He makes sure to close the door behind him, though Cas doesn’t care either way.

He didn’t walk as literally as Cas did into that lake a couple years ago, but he submerged himself, nevertheless. He was swimming in alcohol most of the time, a bottle away from a new liver every week. He knows what it feels like to drown and have Cas’ name on the tip of his tongue. He just didn’t realize it ran both ways. He wonders how his name tasted in Cas’ mouth, cold with lakewater and writhing with Leviathans; Cas’ name was bitter on his tongue more often than not, dry with alcohol and murmured like a prayer, whiskey bottle clutched between his palms where most would hold a rosary.  Maybe not the most conventional devotion, but most gods are kind of dead anyways, right? It was just how Dean worshipped.

“Hey,” he greets, walking back into the library. “Looks like Cas is staying in the cave until this heat wave breaks for good.”

Sam grunts unhappily, and Dean guesses the computer just bested him again.

“I don’t blame him,” Sam says, “It’s fucking hot. Even the bad guys seem to be laying low.”

The doorbell rings then, and Sam and Dean exchange a look.

“That’s not ominous at all,” Dean mutters as he climbs the stairs. Charlie doesn’t bother knocking anymore, and if it were locked, she has a key. Dean has no idea who else would come visit them in the middle of a heat wave. He doesn’t think that many people even know where they live, or that there is, in fact, a place to live out here at all. They’re fairly off the grid, so it’s not like girl scouts try to sell them cookies or anything.

“How come we don’t have a peep hole?” Dean calls down to Sam. “We should have a peep hole.”

“Just answer the door,” is Sam’s reply. “You have your gun?”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Do I have my gun,” he mutters to himself, pulling it out of his waistband. He holds it to the back of the door as he opens it, and silently thanks whatever forethought he had to put a new welcome mat over the bloodstains that Abaddon’s gifts from a couple weeks ago left behind.

It’s raining heavily now, even though Dean doesn’t recall rain being in the weather forecast. He hopes that it’ll finally start to drive the heat away, at least.

On the other side of the door is a small Asian man who looks like he would get carried away by the slightest breeze. His skin is withered and leathery, his eyebrows grey and bushy. He’s holding a small stool under one arm and carrying what looks like a doctor’s bag.

“Hello, sir!” He has to speak up over the rain, and Dean’s worked in the business long enough to know when someone’s legit and someone’s not, and this guy’s definitely not. His clothes are ragged and he’s wearing sandals with socks (Dean very much tries to ignore his inner Tim Gun. Yeah, he’s a hunter, but at least he’s not an abomination) in the pouring _rain_.

Dean nods curtly, making sure to keep his gun trained on the inside of the door. He shifts to make sure his body is between the guy and the bunker.

“What’s up, pal?” Anyone with even the most rudimentary grasp of social cues would hear the dismissal in his voice, but this guy doesn’t even seem to hear him. Dean hears Sam clomping up the stairs behind him, curiosity obviously getting the best of him.

“My name is Paul Marrane!” he says cheerfully, “I’m a traveling shoe repair man!” Dean’s never really liked people who end all of their sentences with exclamation points, and he can’t help but feel validated in that dislike when Sam comes up beside him, and immediately wrinkles his nose. “I’d love to get your-” he looks down at Dean’s feet quickly, “-workboots in working condition again!” He winks. “A good pair of shoes will take you much further than you realize.”

“Yeah…” Dean says slowly, “Well, as luck would have it, I’m a shoe repair man as well!” He fakes a hearty chuckle. “And let me tell you, this town definitely ain’t big enough for the both of us. Take care, man.”

He closes the door in Marrane’s face, and turns to Sam.

“What the hell was that?”

Sam’s still staring at the door.

“You’d think he’d at least wear good shoes, y’know?” Sam asks. “It would really sell the whole ‘shoe repair man’ thing.”

“Heh.” They turn around and head back down to the library. As soon as they’ve gotten to the bottom of the staircase, though, the doorbell rings again.

“Oh, c’mon,” Dean complains, “This is turning into shitty horror movie territory.”

Sam just throws him an annoyed look as they trek back up the stairs. He pulls his gun out as well this time.

He waits on the other side of the door, and on his nod, Dean pulls it open again, ready to threaten this guy in the same vein as those old farts who like to sit on their porch in a rocking chair with a shotgun, screaming at the local kids to get off their lawn.

The only problem with this plan, however, is that there’s no Marrane to shoot at. Dean peeks outside, but sees no sign of him; just buckets of rain. In fact, there’s not even an indent in the welcome mat, which Dean’s hunting instincts immediately pick up on. Marrane is probably ten pounds soaking wet, (which, look at the weather) but Dean should still be able to tell if someone was just standing on that mat and he… can’t. It’s like he was never here.

“Okay,” Dean admits, “This is weird.” He takes one last look outside before shutting the door, and making a show of locking it.

“What do you think?” Sam asks, looking hesitant to put his gun away.

“No fuckin’ clue.” Dean doesn’t put his gun away either. “First things first, though: KEVIN! CAS!” he bellows, and Sam shoots him a pissy look. “Just in case.”

“That’s not why I was complaining, Dean. You could have warned me you were going to shout right in my ear.”

“Oh for the love of- Potential threat, and you’re worried about your ears? D’you want a blanket and some hot chocolate too, baby?”

“For god’s sake Dean, really?”

***

Cas is pretty sure Dean just yelled for him.

Cas is also pretty sure he doesn’t want to leave his room.

But from the sounds of it, he’s not playing around, so Cas reluctantly rolls off his bed. It’s amazing, he thinks, how easily the heat can suck the life out of him. What he didn’t mention to Dean earlier, however, is that the heat makes him feel sluggish, vulnerable in a new and unexpected way. The heat makes everything more difficult to do, and instead of facing that reality, Cas would rather spend all week hidden away in his room and being the butt of jokes around the bunker.

He thinks Dean called him from the library, and pads down the hallway, fighting to pull a t-shirt on (because Dean has grown strangely modest with regards to him) and accidentally getting his head stuck in the arm hole. As he wrestles with the shirt, a sudden tickle drips down his spine, and he immediately straightens up, surveying the hallway through the hole. Nothing seems to be out of sorts, but he still trusts his instincts above all else. Finally getting the shirt on properly, he slips into Dean’s room, which he had stopped just outside of. He grabs a gun that he knows to be loaded, and cautiously peeks his head back out into the hall. At the end of the hallway, a short man stands with his back to Cas.

Cas knows that Sam and Dean are together, and he also knows that Charlie is out of town for a couple days. He thinks Kevin has gone for a walk, or is hopefully deep enough in the bunker that whoever this person or thing is doesn’t bother searching.

He takes a deep breath, and can already feel the back of his knees sweating. He steps out fully into the hall, gun raised and pointed.

“You,” he commands, “Turn around. Slowly.”

The man turns around, his face hidden in shadow.

“Castiel!” he cries out, delighted, “So good to see you!” He starts walking towards him, and Cas readjusts his gun, trying to bring the man’s attention to it.

“Stay where you are,” he orders, and the man does, but his shoulders are shaking. He’s amused. “Where are they?” Cas asks. “The others.”

“The Winchesters?” The man asks, “Oh, they’re fine. Nary a hair on their heads will be harmed.” He assesses Cas, head tilted. The lights are still all off in the hallway, since artificial heat is the last thing they need. The only light that Cas can see is at the end of the hallway, which doesn’t allow him to see the guy’s face. “You’ll be fine, too, Cas,” he promises. “I’m here to help.”

***

Sam finds himself standing in a hall of mirrors.

Not the Versailles Hall of Mirrors, mind, but one of those rinky dink attraction-on-wheels cars they use for carnivals. There’s a million different Sams being repeated in a million different directions, and when he turns around, there’s another set of Sams blinking back at him. Both the ceiling and the floor are reflective as well.

The mirrors are pristine, though, without the dirt and grime normally associated with all carnivals. None of them seem to be distorted in any way, and Sam hasn’t yet seen a reflection that looks like a pear, so he’s not quite sure what he’s found himself in the middle of. He remembers the strange man at the bunker’s front door, but nothing after that. If he had to take a guess, he’d assume the guy hit them with some kind of subduing magic. He makes a mental note to properly go over the bunker’s warding- really, it should have been the first thing they checked after moving in.

He quickly assesses himself, finds no broken bones or strange markings of any kind. His gun is lying, still fully loaded, on the floor beside him, and he picks it up. Feels the weight of it in his hand. It feels the same as it did in the bunker, and he can detect no problems with it.

The room he’s found himself in seems to have no entrance or exit, and is, maybe (if he’s being generous) five feet by five feet. When he touches the mirrors, he doesn’t leave any fingerprints. On a hunch, he tries to steam them up with his breath, and nothing happens. He briefly considers firing a bullet at the mirrors, but doubts it would do any good. Besides, in a space this small, it would royally fuck up his hearing, and the last thing he needs is a blown out ear drum to accompany him in trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

“Dean?” he calls, and can already tell from the way his own voice cushions around him that his call isn’t carrying beyond this tiny space. It’s strange, that he can almost hear his voice come to a halt at the mirrors. He wonders if that barrier extends to oxygen input and output as well, and does his best to calm his breathing. The less oxygen he uses from this moment on, the better.

He catches movement that he doesn’t think is his own out of the corner of his eye, and turns to look. In the mirror in front of him, Marrane is standing beside his reflection, but when he looks beside him, where the man should be standing, there’s only empty space.

“Mirrors,” Sam says, reaching out to tap the reflective surface, even though it just absorbs the noise, “Very original.”

Marrane smiles jovially at him, but only nods.

Sam blinks, and he’s gone.

So it’s a puzzle, or a challenge, or something. It very well _could_ be a death trap designed by whatever Marrane is, but if Sam starts thinking along those lines, he’s already screwed. There _are_ creatures out there that are only interested in testing a person’s wits; sphinxes, for example. Of course, if you fail to answer a sphinx’s riddle correctly, you die. But Sam doesn’t think about that. His first order of business should be to try and break through one of these mirrors, any way he can buy himself some more breathing time.

He’s about to attempt slamming the butt of his gun into the mirror in front of him, and he thinks he catches movement out of the corner of his eye again. When he looks, however, it’s just him staring at endless reflections of himself. He feels eyes on him, which is certainly disconcerting since he’s only surrounded by reflections of himself- even more disconcerting, since with the direction he’s looking at, none of his reflections _should_ be looking at him.

He does a full three sixty, but all the Sams turn with him in perfect sync. When he comes back to his starting position, the Sam he’s staring at is wearing new (or old, depending on your point of view) clothes. In fact, this Sam is a completely different one than all the others. _This_ Sam is Stanford age, wearing a baggy school hoody (he hadn’t filled out yet). His hair is floppy again, perpetually in his eyes, muscle memory kicking in as he moves to push his hair off his forehead. It’s only when his fingers touch bare skin that he realizes Stanford Sam is a reflection of _him_ , not the other way around. He takes a step backwards, and Stanford Sam matches him movement for movement. He takes a step forward, same thing. But he’s not smiling, and Stanford Sam is.

Suddenly, another voice. A voice Sam hasn’t heard in the flesh for years- almost a decade, now.

“Sam!” Jess calls, laughter in her voice, “Are you still admiring that dumb sweater? We’re going to be late!”

Right. Jessica had bought him that. He had forgotten.

Stanford Sam looks off in a direction Sam will never be able to look at again, at the girl who loved him when he most needed to be loved. His eyes go soft as he looks in the mirror one more time, right into Sam’s eyes, and then jogs off to the side, yelling, “Coming!” He leaves the mirror empty, although on closer inspection, there seems to be a dark spot in the distance, as if there’s someone standing at the end of an incredibly long hallway.

In fact… he turns around again, and all the Sams have disappeared. Now they all reflect the same hallway, with the same small figure at the end of it. If Sam watches closely, he can see that the shadow is moving towards him. He looks up, and it looks like that same figure is falling downwards. He looks down, and the figure is speeding upwards.

They’re all converging on one spot- him- and he takes a step back. He preps his shoulder, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and then runs at the mirror, throwing himself against it. He hits it and it feels like he’s just rammed into a concrete wall, his shoulder aching. Holding it with his other arm, he tries kicking the mirror, but that does just as much good as ramming it did. The figures in the mirror are closer now, about halfway down the hall. Sam starts searching the room frantically for any kind of seam, crack, crevice, anything that could potentially be a way out. He continues to throw himself against the wall with his good side, but the mirror doesn’t even tremble. He still doesn’t make a sound when he hits it.

“Fuck it,” he hisses out, grabbing his gun from his waistband. He aims, making sure to stay out of the way of any ricochet, and pulls the trigger.

As he predicted, the sound is deafening. It echoes around him and makes his teeth vibrate. He falls to his knees, hands over his ears, shoulder protesting every move. He dropped his gun somewhere, and once the violent clanging in his head has stopped, he chances a look up at the mirror, and almost cries out in defeat.

Not even a dent. The bullet is lying by his right kneecap.

The figures in the mirrors are only seconds away from reaching him, and Sam barely has a moment to cover his head again.

His tiny five by five world explodes around him.

***

There’s a motorcycle purring between his thighs, and the wind is whipping his pant legs into a frenzy around his ankles. He doesn’t know where he is, but from the looks of the land, he’s in dust country. The sun is setting across a field full of cows lazily chewing grass, casting long, thick shadows in front of them. They’re fenced in by what looks like rotting wooden stakes, hammered into the ground by a crudely shaped hammer probably more than half a century ago. Dean’s never been sure who actually puts these fences up; they’re in the middle of nowhere, for god’s sake, and the fences go on for miles. He can picture it now; itchy cotton fabric scratching at his back and his suspenders determined to fall off at least one shoulder and driving him up the wall all damn day. Sweat pooling at the base of his spine and on his forehead, and those dark patches in his slacks are never going to wash out now, he thinks, as he runs length after length of wire mile after mile, the only noise his boot treads in the dirt, a soft, repetitive thump.

The land is flat out this way, small bumps and hills here and there, even getting as close to ‘rolling’ as one would expect from his spot on a map. His is the only vehicle on the road, and he feels the cows watching him mournfully as he speeds past, big brown eyes tracking his movement, perpetually baleful. The dying rays of sunlight slant across John’s old leather jacket and the visor of the helmet he picked up for twenty bucks a couple states back, and he takes a moment to watch his shadow on the road beside him, his lone companion.

The only strange thing about this scene (minus the fact that he hasn’t ridden a motorcycle in years and he was just in the bunker moments ago) is that there’s no noise of an engine ripping through the air. He can hear the wind around him, can sometimes hear the pop of asphalt under his tires, but absolutely nothing coming from the motorcycle itself. The vibrations are still pumping through his frame, and he’s still watching the Midwestern landscape roll by unhindered, but there’s no growl, no roar, no anything to prove that he actually _is_ going anywhere.

He could stop, try to tinker with the bike and see what’s wrong, but a clenching in his gut tells him to just keep going, keep driving until the knot in his stomach loosens. He doesn’t know what Marrane did to him, or to Sam, (his mind worriedly drifts to Cas’ whereabouts as well) but he’s found that over the years, sometimes playing along with scenarios like these is the best way to buy some time to figure a way out of them.

He drives for hours, mind hazy, hands switching positions on the handlebars every once in a while. He expects his thighs to cramp up from straddling the bike for so long, but he feels just as comfortable as ever. His jacket stays just this side of cool, his helmet never having so much as a mosquito splat onto it, despite his frankly irresponsible speed.

The sun sets slowly- eerily slowly, actually, because when Dean finally pulls off a sideroad into a dirt parking lot, hours later, the ruby red rays of sun are still reflecting off his visor, the purplish tendrils of nighttime only a mere inkling on the horizon. He climbs off the bike, his bones still jittering with movement, although he bets that effect is more psychological than anything. He pulls off his helmet, dropping it with a crack to the hard packed dirt beneath.

Standing in front of him, looking just as derelict and unfriendly as ever, its neon sign sputtering in the last vestiges of daylight, is Harvelle’s Roadhouse.

Silently, he walks up to the building, running a hand over the splintered wood of the doorframe. Echoes of the smell of old peanuts, smoke, and stale beer surround him like an old friend, and Dean can’t help but smile to himself, thinking, _that’s the stuff_. He hasn’t had a good old bar brawl in a while, and his hands flex in anticipation, only because he sometimes misses the feel of the skin over his knuckles splitting. Growing up, some of his oldest memories are of watching John patch up his bloody knuckles after a particularly intense fight with whatever the monster or jackass of the week was, winding the gauze around and around his hand, almost lulling Dean into a trance.

Dean finds no gun on him, and even goes back to the bike to check, but can find no weapon of any kind. He cautiously returns to the door, nudging it open slowly. The light is much bluer inside, all the windows closed and shuttered. It has none of the warmth of when Ellen and Jo inhabited it, and Dean instantly knows he’s alone in the building. Nothing is out of place, per say. All the chairs are up on the tables, and the barstools on the bar, as if they had closed up one night and just never bothered to return. Dean walks over to the bar, trying to minimize every creak and protest of the floor beneath him. His senses are on red alert, but all he’s getting is that this version of The Roadhouse, whatever bubble universe it may exist in, has been empty for a long, long time.

He peers at the row of bottles behind the counter, wiping dust off the labels of any he finds interesting. He even pops open a bottle of whiskey that looks seriously aged and takes a swig. Surprisingly, (or maybe not) it tastes like water. Dean chugs it all, just for good measure and a big screw you to whoever’s probably watching him stumble around his own vacant memories.

He climbs the landing stairs, feeling a fond smile creep up on him as he rests his hand on the old felt of the pool table. In terms of skill, he just edges out Sam on the game, even though they’re both incredibly good. Jo, however, could clean them all out multiple times, no contest. He’s pretty sure one of the most terrifying experiences of his life was then watching Ellen proceed to absolutely demolish Jo, and Dean had learned the hard way that day exactly where he stood in the pool hierarchy at Harvelle’s Roadhouse.

It’s all so real, but it’s not, really. Dean knows this is just a facsimile cooked up by whoever or whatever Marrane is. The problem with things like this, he thinks, is that the copies are never one hundred percent accurate, because you can’t replicate a feeling. Smells, visuals, sure. But walking in that front door and the warmth that would flood him at seeing Ellen and Jo behind the counter, most likely snipping at each other for the same reasons Sam and Dean still snip at each other, is one of a kind. It’s kind of like in those movies, where the bad guy has cloned one of the protagonist’s loved ones, and they have to choose who the real one is, and somehow, something always gives them away. The Roadhouse, as great as it is, is only made up of the people who inhabit it. And since both it and its occupants are long gone, Dean makes his exit.

As the door closes, he has to shield his eyes from the sun that still refuses to set, apparently.

Even though he dropped his helmet on the ground before walking in, he comes outside to find it sitting on the seat of his bike, not a spot of dust on it. He looks around for any movement around him, but it’s still as a grave. He would know, though, if there was something scurrying around. Again with the feelings thing, but he would feel _something’s_ presence. All he feels here is alone.

He pulls on his helmet and clicks the visor down, and climbs onto the motorcycle. Without a backwards glance, he pulls out of the parking lot, kicking up a storm of dust and pebbles behind him as he continues down the road.

***

Cas has never had occasion to think in any depth about whether or not he has a fear of heights. As a human, he’s never experienced any sort of height that troubles him, and as an angel, it most certainly wasn’t a consideration, given that he flew everywhere, and height itself is an arbitrary term when one exists across multiple dimensions.

However, as he finds himself standing on what seems to be a tiny rock platform in open air with nothing else in sight, he’s starting to reconsider his stance on the matter.

He inches forward, and the vertigo he feels upon staring over the edge almost knocks him right over it. He stumbles a step back, trying to calm his now revolting stomach.

“It’s different without the ability to just flutter away, isn’t it?” A voice asks from behind him, and Cas whirls around to come face to face with the man from the bunker again, albeit a much more somber version than the one he met in the bunker. There’s barely a foot of space between them, and every instinct is telling Cas to back off, but then the rest of his wits kindly remind him not to step backwards, lest he want to fall from whatever altitude he’s currently sitting at.

“Who are you?” he demands, trying to ignore the pounding of blood in his ears. How inopportune for his body to start rioting just when he needs it to remain calm the most. He encountered similar feelings on the first few hunts after becoming human, but this seems to be- literally- on another level. Selkies and hoop snakes are one thing- standing on a tiny platform in the middle of nowhere with incredibly thin air is another thing altogether.

The man seems at first surprised, and then his surprise gives way to disappointment.

“Of course, Castiel,” he says sadly, “I suppose without your grace you wouldn’t be able to recognize me. We’ve never met in an official capacity, but I think it’s safe to say we have a lot in common.”

“If that’s the case,” Cas says, trying to keep it calm, though it comes out a lot cooler than he planned, “then you should know you don’t want to be stuck in close quarters with me. There are many who can attest to that, if you also have a talent for talking to the dead.”

That seems to snap the man out of it, and he chortles.

“Humanity looks good on you, I have to admit,” he says lightly, taking a step back. “You might not be all the way there, yet, but you’ll grow into it.”

The last thing Cas wants to discuss at the moment is his aptitude or lack of for being human.

“Where are the Winchesters?” he asks instead, keeping a close eye on how far the old man is from the edge of the platform. It actually reminds him of a certain stage in the video game he sometimes plays with Kevin. It’s called Final Destination, he thinks, although Cas supposes he has to assume if he falls off this particular edge he won’t be respawned from the sky on a platform of light. (Although now that he thinks about it, he has had multiple respawns in a way, if his penchant for dying and coming back to life more than once are anything to go by, and what is god if not an overlarge gloved hand that likes to flick those smaller than him?)

The man shakes his head.

“That’s not a matter you need to concern yourself with,” he informs Cas, “At least not at the moment. I’d be more preoccupied with how you’re going to get off this rock, hm?”

“Why won’t you tell me your name?” Cas asks, ignoring his suggestion. As far as he can tell, the only way he’s getting off this rock is either by jumping or talking his way out of it.

The man taps a finger against his chin thoughtfully and puts on a show of pacing in the limited space he has. Cas is certain that the man already knows exactly what he wants.

“How about we bet on it?” he asks, “If you can guess who I am, I’ll let you- and your friends- go.”

“That’s unfair,” Cas points out, “As I’ve already told you I have no idea who you are.”

“That’s fine,” the man waves him off, “I’ll give you clues. First one: I’m but a poor shoe salesman.”

“Why me?” Cas asks, determined to figure this part out first. “Why come to me instead of the Winchesters?” The last thing he wants to do is give his enemy an even steeper advantage, but he figures this man already seems to know everything about him- current him, at least- anyway. “I’m far from a worthy adversary at the moment.”

The man sits down on the platform, legs crossed. He just stares until Cas finally sits as well.

“I’m not here to harm you,” he promises Cas, “In fact, very much the opposite. I wanted to meet the being that’s had heaven and hell in a tizzy for the last five years. I wanted to see for myself exactly how similar we are.”

Absurdly, the first thought that comes to Cas’ mind is that he’s somehow talking to Lucifer, or another angel that fell long before Metatron cut out his grace in Naomi’s office.

“You should know,” he continues, “that that self-deprecating thing you have going at the moment? Very Winchester.” he winks. “That was the second clue, by the way.”

How, exactly, that’s a clue Cas has no idea. The man obviously knows the Winchesters, but these days, it’s rarer to find someone who _hasn’t_ heard about the Winchesters as opposed to those who have. He wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve already become mythicized in certain circles. That was the plan with the Winchester Gospels anyways, and since they’ve re-emerged, maybe they’ll finally serve their purpose.

“These are awful clues,” Cas says peevishly, and the man bursts into laughter.

“Well I can’t just _tell_ you who I am,” he says, still chuckling.

“You could, actually,” Cas points out.

The man taps a finger on his knee.

“You still don’t get it,” he says, disappointed like he knows Cas could do better, “You’re here to learn a lesson, Castiel.”

***

He doesn’t feel the shards of glass rain down around him, and after thirty seconds of cowering, he slowly straightens up, the tinkling still ringing in his ears.

When he looks up again and finds himself in another hall of mirrors-still not Versailles, sadly- the only upside he can think of is that at least he's in an actual hall this time- as in, there's room to move and a direction to head.

Plus, he's not dead. Not that he's vain or anything, but the idea if being taken out by a tiny jovial shoe salesman in their own home when they've faced down the armies of hell itself and won is a little underwhelming.

As far as he can tell, his reflections are back to normal. They all seem to follow his lead, and that's more than okay with him. He walks down the hall, his footfalls as silent as any other attempt to make noise has been. It's incredibly eerie, and the hairs on the back of his neck stands up. Obviously there's plenty of Sams staring at him right now, but he has to assume Marrane is keeping an eye on him as well, waiting in the wings for whatever reason.

The further he walks down the hall, however, the longer the hall seems to become. He can't actually see an ending point or even a turn off- just length after length of mirrors in one direction.

He walks for a long time with nothing of note happening. His thoughts stray to the whereabouts of Dean, and he wonders if Cas got hit as well.

He tries to figure out through process of elimination what Marrane could be. They've warded against demons, and, since the fall, angels. Alternate realities (or transportation, because Sam still has no clue where he is) can't be made by just any kind of monster. That leaves him with djinn, trickster, or tulpa. He reasons it's unlikely Marrane is a djinn, as they're often heavily tattooed and tend to glow blue when subduing someone, and Sam saw neither of those things. Also, walking forever in a hall of mirrors isn’t exactly his ideal life. Tulpas, while growing in numbers, are still rare. He doubts one would have bothered them way out here in the boonies when they have entire cities of thought to exist on (they have plenty of knowledge here for sure, but they've come to learn that Tulpas are at their strongest when fueled by the thoughts of the living as opposed to the dead.) Tricksters are a nasty bunch, but since they generally focus in cruel, lethal pranks, and Sam hasn't died yet, he probably has to rule one of them out as well. (Although he does recall Gabriel's 'prank' back in Florida after Dean died and how it lasted for months that felt incredibly, painfully real.)

So, in all likelihood, none of these are the perps. Which means Sam is still stumped.

He stops for a moment to gather his bearings, always glancing left, right, up, down, making sure everything is still in the same place it was last time he checked.

The only thing he can hear right now is the rustle of his clothes and his own slow, steady breathes, and it bothers him greatly. As if things will change, he stomps his foot onto the mirror below him, and no surprise, there’s no sound, not even a distant, resonating thump.  It’s futile.

“This is ridiculous,” he says out loud, if only so he can hear something else for a moment. His voice doesn’t echo, though. It flits away from him, like the last tendrils of smoke from a campfire, being swallowed up by the mirrors surrounding. It’s like he’s stuck in a vat of audio-swallowing quicksand.

He’s just turning around to start walking again when he feels a light tap on his bicep and almost jumps out of his skin. He whirls, only to come face to face with more empty space. In the mirror in front of him, standing beside his reflection, is Marrane. He’s smiling toothily at Sam without a care in the world, and Sam wants to smash the glass just on principle, but he knows by now it’s impossible, that it’ll only smash if Marrane wants it smashed.

The old man opens his mouth, and at first, Sam doesn’t think he’s going to hear him. He’s surprised, then, when the words come.

“Why are you waiting?” And it sounds like he’s standing right next to Sam, like he’s whispering in his ear, which is impossible because there’s _no one standing next to him_.

“Who are you?” Sam shouts, finally taking three large strides so that he’s standing right in front of the mirrors. Marrane barely comes up to his elbow, but he shows no indication of nerves as Sam towers over him. “What the hell do you want from me?”

The man’s grin widens at that, and he points at Sam, thrusting his finger through the air as if to say, _that’s the ticket. Now you’re getting somewhere._

Sam blinks, and Marrane is gone. In his place, there’s a new version of Sam. A Sam with three long scratches down his cheek and the same ridiculous Stanford haircut from before, eyes watery. This is him from when they met Meg way back in Chicago, from when they found their dad after months of searching and fought off the daeva together. Automatically, he raises his fingers to his cheek, and when he feels wetness there, he thinks his heart skips a beat or two. When he pulls his hand back, however, there’s no blood.

Beside the reflection with a bloody cheek is a procession of five Sams, each younger and shorter than the last, ending with a Sam who seems to have just learned how to stand on his own two feet. The kid versions of Sam are all holding hands, and instead of staring straight ahead like normal reflections should, they’re all starting at _him_ with mournful eyes. It’s like those paintings with the eyes that feel like they follow you around the room.

Sam turns around, and in the mirrors on the other side are more versions of himself. He recognizes himself in his mid-twenties, and he thinks it’s the version of him from just before Dean went to hell, because he knows he hasn’t looked quite that awful since. His heart constricts painfully for a moment before he steadies himself and manages to examine the next length of mirror.

Naturally, it makes sense that the next Sam he locks eyes with is holding hands with a woman off to the side, and he immediately recognizes the slender forearm as Amelia’s. She’s not saying anything, not like Jess was earlier, but Sam thinks he knows why. He’s pretty sure he remembers this night as well.

They had been getting ready to go out somewhere- a movie, maybe, or the mall to buy new salt and pepper shakers. It had been a loose linking of fingers, and on her end, Amelia had been fixing her hair or something in front of their vanity mirror, and Sam was standing in front of their closet door, staring at his reflection in their full length mirror. He remembers staring at himself, and staring at the sliver of Amelia’s arm he could see, and, not uncommonly, thinking about his brother.

He’s never mentioned much of his time with Amelia to Dean, since it’s still a pretty sore spot for them, but during his year with her, he did that a lot; zoning out, to be exact. Doubting his decision to pack it all in. All his cell phones but one disposable were tossed into a box and left in Rufus’ cabin in Whitefish, which is where Dean found the phone with Kevin’s messages after he got back from Purgatory.

The Sam he’s staring at right now, no matter how much he loved Amelia, is a restless Sam. It was strange, he thinks, how ardently he fought himself on whether to look for Dean or not. He used to sit in front of his laptop for hours, staring at his desktop background blankly. Debating on whether or not to finally pull up Google.

Every time, he would pull back. Every time, he remembered what happened when he lost himself with Ruby.

Every time, that would dissuade him.

He knew that if he found a solution, he would utilize it. No matter how big, no matter how much it needed, he would do it to get his brother back. He knew he would have given himself, would have given the world. Once upon a time he murdered an innocent woman so he could drink gallons upon gallons of her blood to fight Lilith. Sam learned in his year with Amelia that when it came down to it, he had no limits. No cap on how far he would go for a cause, for Dean.

So in the end, the only way to combat this was never going at all. He couldn’t allow himself just a cursory look, refused to call up any old hunter pals of his dad’s or dig into the collapse of Roman’s empire. As soon as he got his foot in the door, he would be in for the long haul. So he did the only thing he could to keep himself grounded, and went and fell in love with a girl who could hold him down, and hoped to god he could be the same for her. There was no way him and Amelia would have worked out long term. Eventually, one of them would have gotten their shit together enough to realize there were brighter horizons, and taken off. Or, more likely, they would have just pushed the other out the door, wishing them the best and thanking them for all the fish.

They weren’t talking, because they didn’t often need to talk. Sometimes it was enough to know you were sharing a bed with someone else who was just as lost as you were, whose sorrow touched your own in familiar, comforting ways.

He lingers on this reflection for a while, refusing to look either left or right. There’s a nostalgic pull in his gut, and if it’s not happiness, it’s fondness, at the very least. He was so incredibly lucky to have found her, so incredibly lucky they found each other. That particular slice of time he’ll always be able to remember as being safe, and in his life, that’s a novelty.

In the end, it’s old school Harry Potter that finally has him avert his eyes, interestingly enough.

“‘It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that.’" He murmurs to himself quietly, gently tapping a parting knuckle on the glass in front of him. The Mirror of Erised always intrigued him as a kid, and he thinks now he knows why. One of his many eighth grade teachers, Mr. Wyatt, once asked him if he wanted to go into the Family Business, and Sam remembers marvelling at the question, unable to give a concrete answer. He had never bothered to think about alternatives, had never pondered what he actually _wanted_. They were always too busy fighting ghosts or hustling pool or saving the world to realize they could have had a different life. The Mirror could have proved all that wrong, could have read him when he couldn’t even read himself.

As he moves on, he vaguely wonders if it’s sad that he’d still like a chance to glimpse in the mirror.

***

Normally, it would take about five hours to drive from The Roadhouse to Bobby’s house in Sioux Falls, but Dean’s not sure if he’s been on the bike for twenty minutes or twenty hours by the time he pulls up the dirt drive. He never had to make a turn, either, which in this reality, doesn’t really surprise him.

The junkers are all still here, piled on top of each other like ill-fitting blocks, glinting in the dusky sunlight. The sun’s rays do their best to penetrate the scrap yard, but the cluttered husks of old cars serve as a fairly steady barrier, only allowing broken, shattered slots of light through. Dean parks the bike and climbs off, moving through the light and feeling like he’s swimming awash in gold.

He pulls open the back door, and even though Bobby was a stickler for locks, it opens under his hand, sans key. Just one more piece of proof that this entire thing is a sham. Even alternate reality Bobby would double lock his doors.

The door actually creeks immensely, and Dean starts. It’s been hours since he’s heard a noise, and the damn door hasn’t been oiled lately, meaning Dean has to practically pry it open, completely disturbing the stillness of the scene around him.

“Son of a bitch,” he grunts, as the door sticks. Dean continues to yank, and it finally gives way after a mighty pull on his end. “Fuck,” he comments, wiping a forearm across his brow as he enters the comparatively cooler house. Naturally, the door swings cheerfully shut behind him and closes without a problem.  Dean rolls his eyes.

The weight of the place is heavy on him, and even the dust motes look like their gravitational pull is off, like the memories are even a little too much for them. The last time Dean was properly in Bobby’s house was years ago, and seeing it again brings a lump to his throat. He trails his fingers down the ugly wallpaper, and stares at the bottom of the steps like they’ll bite him if he stands too close. Sam fell down those stairs once, when they were kids, breaking an ankle in the process. John was more pissed than he was worried. A couple years later, Dean had convinced Sam to stick his head through the slots in the railing, only to find the kid’s head as that kind of funny shape where it could through one way, but not the other. To get him unstuck before Bobby came back in from the scrapyard, Dean had wasted an entire stick of butter slathered on his brother’s neck and ears, but all to no avail, since Bobby promptly walked in and practically busted a gut laughing before threatening to lock them in the garage for the night if they messed up ‘the décor’. He sat right there with Lisa, back when they were still trying to make it work. She told him the year he spent with her and Ben was the best year of her life, and he remembers, even then, rejecting the notion. He brought them nothing but baggage, and couldn’t even leave it at the door for them.

He passes by the stairs.

The library is quiet, sun streaking through the grimy windows looking out onto the scrap yard. It’s cluttered, like it’s always been, books stacked on the floor and haphazardly placed back onto the shelves lining the walls. Dean’s always been of the opinion that Bobby’s head was one of organized chaos, the kind that allows only him to know where everything is at one time, leaving everyone else to wallow around in confusion- which is probably an important characteristic to have when one constantly deals in books that are older than even the idea of bookkeeping itself.

He steps further into the room, missing the telltale sound of floorboards creaking under his feet. The air is thick, musty, like there’s a scarf full of mothballs wrapped around Dean’s face. It’s not like Bobby’s place ever smelled like a bed of roses- more motor oil, book dust, and canned chili- but this is different than before, at The Roadhouse. The Roadhouse was like an absence of warmth, like it had been perfectly preserved for however long it’s been abandoned. Bobby’s is more like a steady decay, the slow descent into the sepia color photographs of times past, edges frayed and torn.

Keeping that in mind, Dean is cautious as he makes his way into the kitchen and the stench gets stronger. He brings an arm up to his face to try and block the smell, but it seems to pervade every pore on his body, covered or not. It’s not the rot of a dead body, or even food being left out for too long, despite being in the kitchen. It’s what long abandoned buildings smell like, centuries since anyone has stepped foot in them.

He thinks, and then groans inwardly at himself for thinking it, that this what aloneness smells like. Not just a smell, but an invisible oppressiveness that sits heavily on his back, right between his shoulder blades.

This stillness is wrong; when Bobby lived here it was ageless, a mini Alexandria. But now, it's fallen into disrepair, abandoned and forgotten on the edge of a universe seemingly occupied solely by Dean, even though the universe by now should know to bestow its infinite wisdom to remember upon someone else.

He misses everything about this place that's still not here. This isn't a trip through memory lane, he thinks, but a glimpse. It's all a replica, hollow walls and doors that lead to nowhere, with none of the reality to back it up.

Suddenly, overwhelmingly defeated, he steps back, falls into a chair at the kitchen table. A bottle of whiskey is sitting next to his limp elbow, winking at him.

He drinks from the bottle, and it's still like water.

“What do you want from me?” He asks the room at large, the world at large. He's tired. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

He waits and waits and waits, even though time is immaterial here. There is no ticking of the clock and the perpetual sunset just keeps on keeping on. Shadows refuse to lengthen and the same nervous energy ticks through Dean, no matter how long he stills still, only his leg jiggling up and down for lack of something better to do.

He used to always think there was time, would measure the seconds and minutes and hours until dad came home, until the day he finally gave in and went to Stanford for Sam; the moments counting down to Mary's birthday and the anniversary of Bobby's death; he used to count the days until Cas would come back, but eventually gave up on that. Cas is and always has been perpetually unreliable, refusing to just die and become another number in Dean’s mental calendar of anniversaries. He supposes it's almost reliable, then, just how unwilling Cas is to go away forever.

It's a compliment on Dean’s end, sort of, but much more a treatise on his pathetic neediness than anything else. 'It’s not you, it's me', etc. 

He spends the majority of his life waiting for the people he loves to leave, to die. Now he’s found himself in a place where there is no such thing as waiting. No such thing as the people he loves.

It should be a respite, to know that there’s no one here he can drive away. Instead, he just feels empty. Hollowed out, like The Roadhouse, like Bobby’s place. Maybe it’s better like that. Maybe he should just spend eternity here drinking fake whiskey and letting the dust call the folds in his clothes home. Besides, Jo, Ellen, and Bobby are all dead. Even he doubts he could do much more damage to them as ghosts, although he does clearly recall himself being the one to toss Bobby’s flask into the fire.

His feet scuff on the old kitchen floor, sandy shushing sounds that dissipate as soon as they’re made. He’s already a ghost here, drifting through places from old memories. It’s amazing, because it doesn’t feel that much different than being alive.

He stands up and strides outside, a sudden thought ringing in his head. The door bangs open with a painful squeak, hitting the side of the house, and Dean stands there, on the back stoop, staring at the road.

His axis mundi was a road.

***

“What kind of lesson could standing on a platform in the middle of nowhere possibly teach me?”

“You can call me Paul,” the man says, hands resting delicately on his kneecaps. “If you like, of course.”

Cas sizes the man up. Physically, he’s not much of a challenge. Small stature, elderly, stooped over; it wouldn’t be hard for Cas to knock him around a bit if physicality were the only traits he needed to take into account. As it stands, however, this Paul seems to be extraordinarily powerful, and could probably send Cas careening over the edge in a matter of seconds should he have the mind to.

“Now, about the Winchesters,” Paul says, perfectly affable, “I left them for a while. Sam needed to have a chat with himself, and poor Dean just needed some alone time, I think. Some perspective.” He winks at Cas, and Cas tries to convince himself he doesn’t have time to worry about Sam or Dean right now, but fails spectacularly. Despite their general communication failures, Dean especially has been very good to him since he fell, offering support in the best way that he could, and Cas feels like he’s never gotten the chance to reciprocate.

“The last thing Dean needs is to be alone,” he argues, if only because it seems like Paul is actively inviting him to counter. Indeed, he looks like the cat who just got the cream, all Cheshire smiles.

“Are you sure?” he asks, waggling a finger at Cas, “Dean has a fairly warped sense of aloneness. His entire life he’s learned to be alone amongst the masses. No man is an island, but Dean Winchester is no mere man, is he? He’s much more, and much less than that.”

“As for Sam,” he continues, “Well, Sam is a hastily cobbled together potluck, don’t you think? Last week’s potato salad, soup from whatever you managed to find in your cupboard, a meat and cheese tray from the grocer’s. Plucked at over and over again, shared amongst many.” He spreads his hands amicably. “I just want the dear boy to consolidate.”

Cas shakes his head, finding all this extremely hard to digest.

“What do you have to _gain_ from teaching us life lessons?” he blurts out, frustrated. “And what do _I_ have to do with any of it?”

“Consider this the universe’s way of saying thank you,” the man says solemnly. “And you have a great deal to do with it, Castiel. Like I said, Sam needed to speak to himself, and Dean needed to speak to no one. I think you, my boy, just need to speak to someone willing to listen.”

Cas doesn’t know what to say. He’s flummoxed, surely. He can safely say he’s never been held against his will to talk about his feelings before.

“I’m not going to share my…” Cas searches for a suitable word that hopefully won’t open up any more discussion on the topic, “ _grievances_ with someone who not only entered my home uninvited, but kidnapped my friends as well.”

“So you consider it your home, then?” Paul says, nodding, and Cas can almost picture him as one of those notebook toting therapists pop culture seems so intent on showcasing. He hums noncommittally. “That’s good.”

“I didn’t-” Cas huffs, his natural inclination to clarify almost getting the best of him, then stops. It was the first word that came to mind, that’s all. He’s just a guest under the Winchesters’ roof, starting long before the roof over their heads became literal. They’ve been kind to him, most definitely, but the bunker is not his home. It doesn’t belong to him.

“You didn’t what?” Paul asks softly, then, more clinical, “What does _home_ mean to you, Castiel?”

He doesn’t want to play this game. He wants to save Sam and Dean, and he wants to be back in his bedroom sleeping and sweating his way through the heat wave, but his mind can’t help but come up with a response regardless.

Heaven, once upon a time, was everything to him. His Father was everything. So Cas supposes, under the umbrella of everything, lays his home.

But he fell. He changed, and suddenly, he was reluctant to call _anything_ his everything. He’s not an angel anymore, so he supposes he should go with a human definition of home. If the dictionary he’s reading is anything to go by (it’s a project that Dean never misses a chance to poke fun at, even though he knows his reasons for it are valid) home is, “the place where one lives permanently”. Not exactly a flowery definition by any means, but a succinct one. Cas doesn’t live anywhere permanently, so he has no home. Simple as that.

Paul _tsks_ over on his side of the platform.

“I asked what your definition of home was,” he says, “Not a dictionary’s.”

“You can hear my thoughts?” Cas snaps, “You didn’t think it was prudent to mention that?”

“I was trying to be diplomatic about it,” Paul says, mellow, and Cas glares until he puts his hands up again. “Okay, okay, I’ll stay out of your head. But _only_ if you properly answer the questions.”

“Fine,” Cas grouses, trying his very best not to sound like a petulant child.

They sit in silence for a moment, Paul looking at him expectantly. When Cas refuses to say anything, he sighs.

“Okay, we’ll skip that question for now,” he adjusts his position a little bit, hands back to over the crossed knees. “How does it feel being human?”

This is a question Cas can answer.

“Hot,” he says immediately. “There’s a heat wave.”

“Ah,” Paul chuckles, “so that was the tickle I felt in Kansas.” When Cas shows no signs of continuing, Paul makes a prompting gesture. “I mean feelings, as in, _feelings_ ,” he emphasizes. “Sorrow, joy, pride, love, lust, loss, the whole grand spectrum of human emotion.”

Cas chews on his tongue for a moment in an act of defiance, but also genuinely trying to come up with an answer.

“Unsettling,” he decides on, the word coming out maybe a little more bitter than he intended.

“And why is that?” Paul asks.

“Because I used to _not_ be a human,” Cas replies snippily, and Paul clucks his tongue.

“Like drawing blood from a stone,” he mutters to himself. “Care to expand on that answer?”

Cas finds himself rolling his eyes, something he did with much less regularity as an angel.

“I’m not what I used to be,” he asserts. “Humans find change unpleasant. Obviously I _feel_ the same way.” He feels his posture turn into one of aggression, leaning forward, chest pushed out, eyes narrowed. “I existed across dimensions,” he hisses, “I rescued the Righteous Man from the pit, and what am I now? I could die from a cut the size of a fingernail. I am _insignificant_.”

Paul nods along slowly, a hand now resting under his chin. He doesn’t have to prompt Cas to go on, this time. It’s definitely better than the empty air Cas has been talking to outside the bunker.

“I don’t look down on them,” Cas says, quieter now. “But I don’t think I can be one. Not how I’m supposed to be.”

“And how are you supposed to be?”

“Better than what I am,” Cas admits. “I say I’m insignificant, but it’s more than that. In terms of powers, yes, I’m nothing. But in terms of actual, genuine humanity?” He shakes his head despondently, and looks down to worry at the cuff of his sleeve, only to realize he’s still in his boxers. Despite the seriousness of the situation, it’s actually quiet humorous. He thinks that if he survives this, he’ll have to tell Dean about it. Dean will find it funny.

A tiny smile is pulling at the corners of his mouth, but he feels it slacken as he continues to speak.

“I’m not good enough.”

Paul surveys him carefully.

“You were smiling just a moment ago,” he informs Cas.

“I can guarantee it was an unrelated matter,” Cas says.

“But a matter regarding your humanity?”

“That’s hardly the point,” Cas mutters, caught out.

“Is it?” Paul says cryptically.

“Look,” Cas says, flustered, “It’s highly _highly_ unlikely that I can get my grace back, closer to impossible. I’m human, so I have to deal with it in whatever way I can, both ups and downs included.”

“I see,” Paul says, easy, with a slight turning upward of the lip. “So… just like any other human, you mean. With, eh, a little extra on the side?”

“I’m not sure that applies,” Cas hedges.

“Okay, Castiel,” Paul says, and this tone is different than any Cas has heard from him before. This tone commands that he be listened to. “You need to know that that dictionary project you’re working on? It’s only good in theory.”

“It’s a practical-” Cas starts to argue, but Paul shushes him.

“In _theory_ ,” he emphasizes, “It’s a good idea.”

“I don’t understand,” Cas tells him, frustrated and ultimately, confused.

“You will,” Paul assures him. “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow or next week. But eventually, you will.”

Cas has given his share of cryptic warnings in the past. He never quite thought how it would feel to be on the receiving end of them.

“This feels like the end of our conversation,” Cas parses out slowly, “And I still haven’t guessed who you are yet.”

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” Paul says. “Not really. But if you prefer, you can now call me Ahasver.”

Cas feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.

***

He’s surrounded by Sams from almost every facet of his life, now. There’s a seven year old Sam with scuffed knees and dirt on his face, soccer trophy in hand, beaming; A Sam who walked around with almost a permanent blush in early 1993 when he had his first crush on a girl named Bethany; The Sam who was obsessed with becoming a magician for a couple years complete with top hat and magic wand; The teenaged Sam from the day he mailed off his application to Stanford- he can tell by the pure adrenaline in his own young face.

There’s older versions of Sam as well, some Sam doesn’t even recognize. There’s one wearing a ridiculous golden crown, smirking at him; there’s Sam possessed by Meg, Sam possessed by Lucifer; Sam without a soul; Sam in the psychiatric hospital.

He was too busy examining all the reflections before, but he realizes now that he’s back where he started, in a small box, the hallway gone as if it never existed. In front of him is, as far as he can tell, his proper, current reflection. The only difference is that the Sam in the mirror is holding a six month old Sam.

The real Sam’s heart stops.

It always comes back to this, doesn’t it? Sam at six months, Azazel sneaking into his room and bleeding into his mouth.

The child shifts in his reflection’s arms, stretching wide and yawning. He turns to look at Sam, and smiles at him. His eyes are yellow.

“No,” Sam says flatly. “Not again.”

The reflection doesn’t change, but there’s the tiniest tremor beneath Sam’s feet. He sees the mirror wobble, barely.

***

The road ends for Dean at the bunker. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. What’s the saying? All roads lead to Rome? Or home? Whatever.

He enters and snaps on the lights, and the library is empty. He’s actually pretty sure he’s standing right around where the old guy zapped them, and has to take a second to contemplate the idea of his ghost-self standing in his self-self. Ugh.

He methodically makes his way through the bunker, periodically calling out for Sam, Cas, or Kevin. He even checks the dungeon to see if somehow Crowley’s wormed his ugly little self into this world, but the dungeon is blessedly empty as well. All their rooms are back to the way they were before they moved in, and there’s not a speck of food in the kitchen. Just for posterity’s sake, Dean finds one of the old whiskey bottle left behind by the Men of Letters and takes a swig. Unsurprisingly, it still tastes like nothing. He drinks it all anyways, and dumps it onto the table in the library.

He’s sitting in one of the chairs, staring right through the whiskey bottle, world tinted a watery brown, when he hears the familiar scratch of the record player in the corner. The sound of static fills the room, and he whirls around. He gets up cautiously, automatically reaching for a gun that isn’t there. The corner is empty, but he can see the record turning from here. The soft strains of Johnnie Ray singing “Cry” comes in over the pops and whirls, lamenting that damn letter of goodbye.

Dean lays a hand on the side of the record player, straining his ears for any other movement in the room, but can’t hear anything but the song.

Johnnie Ray sings about bad dreams that feel real.

***

“You’re a traitor,” Cas says in wonderment, scrambling into a standing position. “You- you-”

Ahasver waves him off, willy-nilly.

“Those stories are greatly exaggerated,” he assures Cas. “The Son was just… feeling testy that day. Wouldn’t you, after having carried a cross on your own for so long?” He stands as well, taking a step closer to Cas, who has to fight every urge within him telling him to take a step back.

“Would you really like to know why I gave Jesus a good whack and told him to get going?” Ahasver asks, and Cas swears that’s a twinkle in his eye. “There was a pack of werewolves headed his way. I was doing him a favor, but, in typical biblical fashion, he overreacted.”

“You blaspheme,” Cas says, so weakly that he doesn’t even believe it himself.

Ahasver gives him a knowing look. “So did Lucifer.” He winks. “So did you. Us rebels come in all different flavors, don’t we?”

“What do you want from me?” Cas whispers, “What do you want from the Winchesters?”

Ahasver takes another step forward. “It’s part of paying my dues,” he says, “But you should know, they never specified in _how_ I had to pay them.” Another step, and Cas really starts to feel his heart race. “You need to understand,” he says, quieter now, like someone could be listening in on their conversation. Cas feels his foot slip on the edge behind him, hears tiny rocks scrambling down the sides and then silence as they hit open air. His heart jumps into his throat. “It’s not over, Castiel. I need you – _especially_ you- and the Winchesters to stick to your guns. There’s so much at stake here.”

“Then why can’t you just tell me?” Cas asks desperately, still attempting to shuffle back despite there being absolutely no room between him and the drop. “Everyone else seems to know what’s happening except us.”

Ahasver shakes his head.

“It’s all connected,” he says hurriedly, “but that’s all I can tell you, and even then I’m pushing it. You need to remember that,” he says, taking the final step that lands him in front of Cas, his eyes wide and pleading. He puts a surprisingly firm hand on Cas’ shoulder. “You _must_ remember that it’s all connected.”

“Wh-” Cas starts to ask, but gets interrupted by Ahasver shoving him entirely off the platform.

Within seconds, he’s falling.

***

The mirrors shatter again, but this time, they shatter outwards.

***

The music fades into the background, static buzzing through him, like a more aggressive form of silence, and he falls to his knees.

***

Cas only comes to when he hears a door open and close. As soon as he remembers his last bout of consciousness, he jerks upwards, limbs flailing madly, but only finds himself slumped in a chair in the library. He whips his head around so fast he cricks his neck, and relief practically whooshes out of him as he sees Sam and Dean slumped in similar fashions in other chairs- Dean, actually, is spread eagle on Kevin’s bean bag chair, in what looks like an incredibly uncomfortable position.

“Sam,” he croaks out, finding his mouth incredibly dry. He swallows, wondering how long they’ve been out. “Sam,” he tries again, and across the table, Sam stirs, hands automatically coming up to comb through is hair.

He pushes himself out of the chair, and crouches down next to Dean, shaking him gently by the shoulder. It’s only then that he realizes both his shoes and Dean’s shoes are gone. He glances under the table to the other side and sees that Sam’s are gone as well.

“Dean,” he says, “Wake up.”

Dean grumbles and kind of swats at Cas’ face, but blearily opens his eyes.

“Cas?” he rasps out, and starts coughing. “What the hell happened?”

“Uh… yeah,” comes a new voice, and Cas looks up to see Charlie standing at the bottom of the stairs, small suitcase in hand, staring at them with her eyebrows raised. “I second that.” She notices their shoeless feet then, and her quizzical expression only becomes more pronounced. “Trouble afoot?” she jokes, but her smile falls as she gets a closer look at their faces.

“Something like that,” Cas says softly, and when he turns to look at Dean, he sees that he’s not looking at him or Charlie, but staring right past them. He follows Dean’s gaze, only to find him looking with troubled eyes at an empty brown whiskey bottle on the table.


	7. Black Holes and Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title taken from the song 'starlight' by muse
> 
> another two parter. this is 1/2

**Lebanon, Kansas**

Tyler Hannigan towels off after his daily night swim, doing his best not to glance at his new neighbor’s house. She’d moved in a couple weeks ago, young and hot as hell- Libby something or other, he never caught her last name- and he had been determined to make a good impression.

As it turned out, though, she was weird. Not worth the effort, in his book. Weird like, she liked to lie on her roof all night and stare at the sky, like she was eternally baked. More than once, he’s come out of his pool at night to find her staring directly at him, eyes lit up like car headlights, but a searing, painful blue. She was an airhead, and a flake, and probably a meth addict or something. Tyler has never touched the stuff, is too focused on his job of running his hardware store in town.

At least she’s not outside tonight.

He’d backed off quickly enough, after his initial attempt at “getting to know her” over a swim. She had showed up in jeans, for fuck’s sake, and when he asked where her bathing suit was, she just looked at him like _he_ was the idiot. So he gave her an old pair of trunks and a too small t-shirt (hey, let it never be said he isn’t a gentleman) and they’d hung out for a while, until it turned dark and she up and left without a word.

In retrospect, he thinks, _good riddance_ , holding a hand to his abdomen as a late settling cramp sets in.

He heads inside through the back door, running the towel through his hair vigorously. The voicemail light on his phone is flashing, and he listens to his sister detail her itinerary for her arrival tomorrow morning- she’s flying in from New York. He deletes the message with a huffed laugh, knows Carrie will be here about two hours before she claims, because she’s neurotic like that.

Another cramp hits him as he walks upstairs, and he gasps out in pain. He rarely cramps from swimming, and almost never this long after he gets out of the pool. He’ll have to do some stretches before he goes to sleep tonight.

He opens the door to the bathroom and almost pitches sideways when his thigh cramps too.

“What the fuck?” he mumbles, trying to massage the spasming muscle. He limps over to the shower, making sure to turn the heat up. Maybe the heat will chase away the tightness.

He collapses onto the toilet seat, waiting for the water to warm up, rubbing both legs now. The tremors in his abdomen have spread as well, and he finds his arms twitching. It feels like his muscles are trying to change places, tearing themselves away from the tendons, rearranging themselves.

A particularly violent spasm in his lower back sends him sprawling to the cool tile of the bathroom floor, and he hears his appendages start to slap against the tile as the tremors get worse. He looks down at his arm, and to his horror, he can see his skin stretching in various places, like there’s something beneath straining to tear its way out.

The bathroom is steaming up now, the mirror fogged and condensation forming between his body and the floor. He must be in shock, because as he watches the skin on his arm break, and tiny, green plants poke their heads through, the only thing he can think of is that at least they’ll have the water from the shower splashing drops over them.

An obstruction has been working its way up his throat, and amongst all the spasms, he starts to violently cough, body wracked with tremors and lips turning blue. Eventually, he manages to dislodge some of what’s in his throat, and he coughs a soft, fuzzy plant into his hand.

He flops onto his back, almost fainting as he sees the entire expanse of his torso rioting, every couple inches of skin being stretched as the plants attempt to work their way through his system.

With one last, explosive pop, Taylor’s torso erupts into a tiny forest of green (and red), and he finally lays still. 

***

Sam’s still not entirely comfortable with mirrors after what happened last week, but Cas has been walking around barefoot since they woke up sans shoes in the library, so he’s decided to brave the half mirrors of the shoe store for Cas’ podiatric needs- also because Dean was complaining about the sweaty footprints Cas was leaving in a trail behind him, like the most uncomfortable kind of breadcrumbs.

“Well why don’t _you_ go, then?” Sam had asked testily.

“I’m _busy_ , Sam,” Dean had replied, just as testy, not even looking up from the television where a giant shark and mega octopus were dueling it out pretty fiercely.

“I could just borrow another pair-” Cas starts, but Dean was vehemently shaking his head before Cas could even finish.

“Smelly feet!” Dean had declared, “Not in my boots again.”

And yet, even though no actual, legitimate reason was given, Sam and Cas still find themselves in the shoe store minus Dean.

“If you would just teach me how to drive, we wouldn’t have this problem,” Cas says as they browse the aisles, “I would be able to run errands by myself.”

“I can’t imagine you’d want to-” Sam starts, before looking up and seeing Cas’ face, pleading for him to humor him. He straightens up and pulls at the tails of his shirt. “Yeah,” he corrects himself, “No problem. We can do that.” He coughs awkwardly, “I mean, we should do it before winter rolls around, at least. Knowing how to drive in all kinds of weather is incredibly important, after all…” he trails off after he realizes he’s starting to sound like a PSA, and pulls a pair of shoes off the shelf at random. He hands them across the dividend in the aisle to Cas. “Here, try these.”

Unsurprisingly, they don’t fit, and they keep looking. The store isn’t incredibly busy, which is good, considering the way Cas is clomping around in one of Sam’s borrowed pairs. He sounds like a kid stomping around playing Godzilla.

Neither Cas or Dean seemed too interested in sharing their experiences with Marrane from last week. (Cas had explained everything with the precise, monotone detachment of a scientist, and it almost reminded Sam of what he was like when they first met, but he hadn’t actually said a single pronoun during the entire explanation. Not a hint of what had happened.) Sam isn’t too interested in sharing either, although he has to admit, he’s curious. He wonders if Cas and Dean have talked about it amongst themselves. It wouldn’t surprise him.

Sam is trying to figure out the best way of asking Cas if he’s okay without actually saying the words, when Cas calls him over, actually sounding pleased with himself.

“I think I’ve found a pair,” he says gravely, despite the smile ticking at the corners of his mouth, and Sam can’t help but think how much easier emotion seems to come to him now. He’s not fooled in the slightest, knows that Cas is still struggling with his humanity more than he’d ever admit, but during moments like these, Sam thinks it just creeps up on him, uninhibited. He hopes Cas counts these moments as a win- or maybe it’d be even better if he doesn’t notice them, humanity washing over him in a slow wave rather than just dumping him in the deep end.

Whether this is a process of recovery or acceptance, it doesn’t matter. Sam can relate.

They end up deciding on the boots Cas picked out, and when they bring the box with the right size up to the front, the woman behind the counter has her back turned to them.

“Uh, hey,” Sam says, trying to get her attention, and for some reason waving, even though she can’t see him.

“Hi th-” she turns around and when she sees Cas, her eyes go wide and her entire posture stiffens, tongue caught between her teeth. For thirty seconds straight she stares at Cas, unblinking.

Cas looks to Sam, as if for help, but Sam minutely shakes his head. He subtly places his hand on his hip where Ruby’s knife is tucked into his waistband, just in case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s gotten into a scuffle while shoe shopping; the life of a Winchester.

“Uh, hello,” Cas eventually says haltingly, placing a hand on the shoe box and sliding it across the counter towards her. Her nametag reads ‘Libby’. “We’d like to purchase these boots, please.”

She doesn’t even look down at the box. Her wide eyes are still fixed on Cas’ face.

“Castiel,” she breathes, like a revelation.

“I’m- I’m sorry,” Cas says, looking quickly to Sam again, who tightens his grip on the hilt of the knife. “I don’t recognize you.”

The woman is young, probably in her early twenties. She’s slim and fair, almost gaunt, with no makeup on. Her hair is down to her elbows and black as the night sky. Her stare is a glacial blue, alien and unnerving, and even Cas seems to be squirming under it, uncomfortable.

“We’ve never met,” she says in a rush, like the words are coming too fast for her to contain them- in fact, she covers her mouth with her hands, but blurts through them, “But I think you know me.”

“Who are you, then?”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“My name is Wormwood.”

***

When Dean hears the front door open, he pauses his movie so he can shout, “I hope you picked up milk on the way back because we’re all out!” at Sam and Cas, and then turns it back on again, congratulating himself for a job well done.

Instead of a carton of milk, however, Sam and Cas saw fit to bring home a fallen angel.

“Oh,” Dean says when they tell him, all sitting at the table in the library. He raps his knuckles on the table if only for something to do, and glances up at the ceiling like there’s answers written there. “Well I guess it’s good to know fallen angels can get through the wards. We should check on that.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Wormwood assures him, her voice soft and breezy. “I _vow_ not to hurt you.”  

“Okay then,” Dean smiles knowingly at Sam and Cas like this is all one big joke they’re supposedly in on, eyebrows raising. When no one gives him anything, he turns reluctantly back to Wormwood. “Let me get this straight,” he says, leaning on his elbow and pointing at her, “Actually- first things first- your name is really _Wormwood_?”

“She’s the angel of the stars, Dean,” Sam mutters from beside him.

“Oh,” Dean says, then, realizing what Sam’s just said, “ _Oh_. That’s actually pretty cool.”

“Do you enjoy being cold?” Wormwood asks him earnestly, flashing him a bright grin, “I’m glad I could make that happen for you.”

Dean shoots Cas a look, who just shrugs.

“This used to be you, y’know,” Dean informs him.

“I don’t think that’s-” Cas looks over at Wormwood again, assessing, “I think I was at least a little bit more threatening than that.”

Dean scrunches his face up and tilts his hand back and forth. “Eh.”

“Dean…”

Dean puts his hands up in defense. “Hey man, you were like a cute little puppy. I got no qualms with that.”

“You’re pathologically afraid of dogs, Dean.”

“Not cutesy wootsy little puppy wuppys who-”

“ _Okay_ ,” Sam cuts in, glaring at them both, “It’s not like we don’t have more important issues on the table here.”

Wormwood is looking between Dean and Cas, as if trying to figure something out.

"Flirting?" she asks, the word sounding strange rolling off her tongue.

Sam coughs loudly, most likely trying to hide a laugh.

"What?" Dean snaps, and her eyes go wide again.

"Nothing! Nevermind, nothing." She mutters, panicked that she's upset anyone. "Sorry I was just- trying to observe. It's still all so new," she says, chagrined.

Cas has been looking at Wormwood like she's the holy grail ever since they brought her back here, and even now, he's staring at her with this absolute fondness, and it hits Dean over the head that this is how he still looks at Sam sometimes. He's in the middle of witnessing Cas actually be an older brother who doesn't have to kill his younger siblings, and Dean has to figure that means a hell of a lot to him right now. It's kind of endearing, actually, to see Cas' gaze that soft.

"I never even considered the angels who weren't in heaven at the time would fall as well," Cas is telling her, regret obvious in his tone. "But the spell pulled you out of the sky as well," he shakes his head, disgusted with himself. "I'm so sorry."

"Wait," Dean says, "if you were in the sky but weren't in heaven when the angels fell, where were you?"

"Among the stars," Wormwood says with such genuine sincerity that Dean can't even begin to crack a smile. “Nestled right beside nearby _Maoffas Oiveae_.”

“Maoffas Oivege?” Dean asks, “Is that-”

“Enochian, yes,” Cas nods. “It means red star. She’s talking about Proxima Centauri.”

"So, if angels could have been plucked out of anywhere," Sam starts, nervous, "then what does that say about the security of the cage? About Michael and Lucifer? I mean, I don’t know how to compare the distance between Proxima Centauri and the earth and the cage and the earth, but-"

Cas shakes his head quickly. "There's nothing to worry about with regards to that," he assures everyone, "the spell wasn't designed to-metaphorically- unlock any doors. And not in that general direction either. It was concentrated in heaven and unfortunately Wormwood must have caught some of the ripple effect."

Sam visibly sighs in relief.

“Well I guess that’s one less thing to worry about,” he says.

“Yeah,” Dean deadpans, “Michael and Satan aren’t going to add to the already numerous problems we have. Halleluiah.”

“Perhaps we should focus on the problem at hand,” Cas intones, inclining his head towards Wormwood.

“That’s a good-” Sam is just starting to say, when his cellphone starts to ring. He holds up a finger as he digs it out of his pocket, glancing at the screen. “It’s Charlie,” he announces, “Just a second.”

“Hello?” Dean can barely hear Charlie on the other end, but definitely can’t make out what she’s saying, but he thinks she’s talking quickly and urgently. Last they heard from her, she was still visiting Carson in some undisclosed location somewhere out west, thirty or so Supernatural novels in tow. (“What?” she’d asked as she packed, “Just because I’m going to visit a friend doesn’t mean I’m not on the job.”) “No, we haven’t,” Sam says, crease forming between his brows. “We’ve been kind of busy as it is. Why?” Charlie talks longer this time, and as she speaks, Sam opens his laptop and starts clicking around. Dean leans over to see what he’s searching up, Cas and Wormwood looking on in interest from across the table. He ends up on the homepage of Lebanon’s daily paper, one of the smaller headlines talking about a murder in town. “Wait, as in absinthe?” Sam asks, surprised, as he clicks on the story. “Out of his _chest_?” He makes a face. “Okay. Okay. Alright. Uh, one thing. Why are you monitoring the Lebanon newspaper from like three states away?” Charlie’s voice is louder now, and if Dean’s guess is correct, Sam’s getting quite an earful. “Okay, okay,” he mutters, holding the phone slightly away from his ear. “Thanks, Charlie,” he finally says, grimacing as he hangs up.

“So what’s up?” Dean asks, “She think it’s something we need to look into?”

Sam scans the article quickly.

“Apparently a man named Tyler Hannigan in town was found dead in his bathroom by his visiting sister. The article doesn’t say, but I guess Charlie’s hacked into the police databases as well, because he had plants growing out of his chest and in his throat.”

“Eugh. Any leads?”

“Well Charlie said-”

He’s interrupted by a horrified choking noise, and everyone at the table turns to look at Wormwood, who has her hands over her face. She’s shaking minutely, and even paler than she normally is.

“It’s my fault,” she whispers, rocking back and forth on the chair. “It’s all my fault.”

Sam and Dean both turn immediately to Cas for an explanation, who’s in turn looking at Wormwood with a heartbroken expression.

“‘ _The third angel sounded his trumpet, and a great star, blazing like a torch, fell from the sky on a third of the rivers and on the springs of water— the name of the star is Wormwood. A third of the waters turned bitter, and many people died from the waters that had become bitter_ ,’" he murmurs, looking like he wants to reach out and touch her, but holds himself back. “Revelation 8:10- 11.”

She sniffs, resting her elbows on her knees, still hiding her face.

“I didn’t know, then,” she says, muffled. “I fell and my host offered to share her vessel with me. She helped me with her job at the shoe store and she taught me how to use the oven, but she didn’t- she didn’t know about that.”

“You mean you knew about this?” Dean asks, at the same time Cas says, “You _shared_ your vessel with your host?”

"You can just half it like that?" Sam asks, completely stunned. "Like what, like roommates or something?" He looks to Cas for any confirmation, while Cas continues to stare at Wormwood, face alight.

"It's not... An encouraged technique," he explains, "Angels are taught to take their vessels wholly, leaving no question as to who's in charge. It would take an extraordinary amount of willpower on the part of the angel to regulate the possession." He looks deeply into Wormwood’s eyes, like he's trying to find the host behind them. "Does she know what's happening right now?" Cas asks.

Wormwood nods.

"We're generally conscious at the same time," she says, “We just take turns driving, as Libby likes to say." The corner of her mouth twitches, and her chin wobbles. "Tyler was our neighbor," she says quietly, "Libby let me take control to meet him, but she said he was a 'douche' anyway and not worth our time."

Dean grimaces.

"Well if you can't save em, you hope they're a douche," he quips half-heartedly.

"I would stop it if I could," Wormwood says. "When I'm in control I do my best to stay away from water, but Libby and her body still need it. Showers, brushing teeth, even plain drinking water. We try to be careful but," she shakes her head, a tear escaping and rolling down her cheek, "mistakes happen."

"Not anymore," Cas assures her, "You're welcome to stay with us until we figure this out." He looks to Sam and Dean, Sam nodding resolutely, and Dean hoping no one is actually looking at him.

He stands up.

"Can I have a word?" he asks Cas, inclining his head towards the hallway.

Cas follows him to his room, where Dean shuts the door behind them.

"I got no problem helpin’ who needs to be helped," Dean starts right away, "and Cas, man, you know we want to support you and all that shit, but we haven't exactly had the best track record with angels in the past. Who's to say this isn't some elaborate scheme testing our defenses or something, huh?" He paces back and forth, feels Cas' eyes following him every step of the way. "Which we failed miserably, by the way," he tacks on grouchily.

Cas has his back up, Dean can tell. He figured this would start and end with a fight, feeling ridiculously like the in laws who just can't for the life of them get along, Cas the exasperated spouse trapped in the middle of it all- except for the part where Cas actively went to war against half of his family because they tried to end the world, and ended up killing another sizeable chunk when he declared himself patriarch.

"You saw her," Cas argues, "she's peaceful, kind. You heard her. She hasn't been part of heaven’s regime in millennia. There's no reason for her to want-"

"We thought there was no reason they would want the apocalypse!" Dean snaps, harsher than he means to. "You thought you could trust them. Uriel, Anna, fucking _god_ , man. You got boned each time. And then all the shit with metatron? C'mon Cas," Dean pleads, "don't fall for this shit again."

Cas lays a hand over his face for a moment, sighing deeply.

"They're my family, too, Dean," he says quietly. "Despite all that's happened in the past, it doesn't change anything," he continues sadly, but resolutely. "I have a duty to them."

Dean shakes his head in disbelief.

"So naive," he says in awe, "so fucking willing to see the good in everyone that you're completely blind to putting your own ass on the line time and time again." He takes a step closer to Cas, who's standing in front of the door, arms crossed. "I'm trying to look out for you," he admits softly, "Sam and Kevin and Charlie too. I'm trying to protect you."

"There's nothing to protect us _from_ ," Cas says, "Not here, not now." He uncrosses his arms, looks for a second like he might reach out to Dean, but pulls back at the last second, just like he did with Wormwood in the library. "It's Wormwood and Libby who need our help right now," he entreats, "I owe it to her, Dean. I owe a lot of people a lot more than that."

He hasn't mentioned it, but Dean knows Cas is still swimming in guilt over what happened in Minnesota.

"If this is going to happen," Dean says, knowing he’s giving in but not quite wanting to put it into words just yet, gesturing between the two of them and then in the vague direction of the library, "we need the lines of communication completely open, got it?" He knows Cas understands what he's talking about, that he can't just stop talking for days at a time or completely close off anymore. He hopes that maybe, maybe this'll be the thing to bring Cas back properly. He thought it would be hunting, but that's gone about as badly as possible so far. Maybe it'll be his inevitably impossible family that finally pulls him back.

He tries not to think about the fact that basically anybody would be more successful at bringing Cas back than him, if the last couple weeks are anything to go by. He tries not to think of this as something he can't fix, as not being good enough to bring Cas back on his own.

He really tries.

***

When they return to the library, they find Sam and Wormwood deep in conversation, only to be broken off when they take their respective seats.

“Why don’t you tell Dean and Cas what you were just telling me?” Sam offers, smiling gently at her. He’s obviously more trusting than Dean, seemingly fond of her already. It makes Cas’ stomach turn, because as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Dean has a point. This could be dangerous, it could be a trap. After all, what are the chances that Wormwood would have chosen to take a vessel so close to them, when she had all the world to choose from?

On the other hand, Cas desperately wants to be right. He needs to believe he can help his family instead of hurting them, time and time again.

Sam is looking almost excited as Wormwood begins speaking, purposeful.

“I fell with a friend of mine,” she says, sadness playing at the corners of her eyes, as Sam, already having heard the story, nods along sympathetically, “we took vessels that lived in close proximity to each other and even worked in the same store as each other. The fall was difficult, but we did our best to support each other.” She sniffs, shaking her head. “Ariel took her vessel completely,” she continues, “After a couple of weeks, she started acting strange. We were just settling, trying to fit in, but she started talking about this new group; a faction of the fallen, she called them. I don’t know really know much about them, but one day, Ariel was just gone. Vanished.” She rubs at her eyes distractedly. “All I know is that she talked about someone named Adler a couple of times.” She turns completely to face Cas, eyes pleading. “She’s been missing for weeks, and I have no idea where she is, or who’s a part of this faction, or if she’s even still alive.”

Dean and Cas look at each other, and then both look to Sam, who nods.

“Okay,” Dean says, clapping his hands together- _on board_. “So we need to fix your water issue and find Ariel. Sounds simple enough.”

“Any chance you have something of Ariel’s on you?” Sam asks her, “We can try a tracking spell, although I’m not sure how well it’ll work on a fallen angel.”

Wormwood immediately starts untying the bracelet she’s wearing, a simple leather and cloth number.

“Ariel left this at work the day before she disappeared,” Wormwood explains, handing it over to Sam. “I wore it so I would remember to give it back to her, but, well-” she shrugs hopelessly, her smile weak.

“It’s perfect,” Cas assures her, doing his best to sound comforting. He glances over at Sam and Dean. “You two can go try the spell,” he says, “I’ll stay here.”

They both rise and start to leave, but Dean makes sure to send Cas a warning look over his shoulder before they disappear into the bunker.

“We’ll figure this out,” Cas says, “I can promise you that.”

When Wormwood turns to look at him again, her gaze is much more composed.

“You’ve quite the reputation, you know,” she tells him. “Even the stars gossip about you.”

Her voice isn’t accusatory, but it’s not singing his praises either. In fact, it’s almost dangerously neutral. By now, Cas is pretty sure every angel has some form of opinion about him or another, and assumes the majority of them are bad.

“That was never my intention,” he says hastily, trying to set the record straight. “The last thing I want is-”

“You’ve killed so many,” Wormwood interrupts wonderingly, and Cas feels his heart sink. “So much blood on your hands, it’s like you’re drowning in it.”

Cas can’t look at her anymore. He casts his eyes down and closes them.

“I would never try to justify my actions,” he begins hoarsely, “All I can hope-”

He’s interrupted again by the feeling of a palm resting on his cheek, and opens his eyes to find Wormwood looking down at him, face soft.

“We also know how many you’ve saved,” she says gently. “We don’t make it a habit to judge.”

Cas swallows hard.

“I deserve to be punished,” he mumbles, speaking into her palm, the familiarity of siblings bittersweet in his throat, “I deserve so much worse.”

Another palm comes to rest on his other cheek, and slowly lifts his head so that he’s on the same level as Wormwood.

“I cannot absolve you, Castiel,” she says seriously, “but I refuse to condemn you.”

Self-loathing and misery swirl inside Cas, blocking his throat and making it hard for him to speak. He remembers Dean saying, _you did the best you could at the time_ , and wonders if Dean thinks so little of him that _the best he can do_ is killing Bobby’s old friends and destroying Sam’s wall, that his best is decimating heaven and bringing the Leviathan into the world.

“I’ll condemn myself, then,” Cas says, practically having to crack his face in two to put on a self-deprecating smile. It’s something he’s picked up more fluently since the fall, the need to spout harsh truths with a grin. He thinks it’s supposed to lighten the blow, no matter which direction the fist is heading.

He still feels like he’s been punched anyways.

“You should find _peace_ ,” Wormwood corrects him, palms falling away from his face and resting in her lap.  She examines his face, eyes flitting between his own and the doorway Sam and Dean just exited. “There’s something between you two; you and Dean.” She observes, though it’s not the kind of observation that needs a reply. The words hang in the air between them for a moment, Cas not sure what to think about them, filing them away for further examination at a later date.

“We should start looking for information on your affliction,” he says, perhaps a little more gruffly than he intends.

Wormwood just nods.

***

“I swear I’ve heard that name before,” Dean says distractedly, as Sam digs around the old map room, looking for one that’s as recent as possible and hopefully of little value. He’s sitting on the old wooden table, face scrunched up in concentration. “Adler…” he mumbles, “It’s like it’s on the tip of my tongue, but I just can’t-” he wiggles his tongue back and forth. “Ugh, c’mon!”

Sam turns around, map in hand, and makes a face at Dean’s tongue.

“Put that away, Dean, jesus,” he chastises, moving over to the table and nudging Dean off as he spreads the map out. It’s yellowed and frayed at the edges, with little tears here and there. It’s dated 1958, the last year the Men of Letters were in the bunker.

“We really ought to start buying maps in bulk,” Dean observes, as Sam grabs the candle and lights it. He starts chanting in Latin and holds Ariel’s bracelet to the flame. Once it’s caught, he brings the bracelet to the corner of the map, and watches the paper burn and crinkle at the edges.

“You sure Ruby’s tracking spell is gonna work?” Dean asks as they both stare into the fire, feeling that same acidic taste in the back of his throat that boils up every time Ruby is mentioned, “Since she was a witch and all and you’re not exactly boy wonder anymore.”

“Assuming fallen angels can be tracked, it’ll work,” Sam assures him, voice distant, “I modified the spell a little bit to make it more accessible.”

“Oh.” Dean swallows back an ugly retort. “Great.”

Sam holds out a hand over the map.

“Out,” he commands, and the flames die. The only part of the map that’s not charred black is a small southwestern section of Utah. Sam and Dean lean closer to read the map’s writing.

“Bryce Canyon,” they say together.

Dean clucks his tongue disapprovingly.

“This should be easy,” he offers weakly.

***

“So.” Dean and Sam have just returned to the library, tossing the small piece of map onto Cas’ open book. “Bryce Canyon, Utah. Or, to be more specific, Bryce Canyon National Park, Utah, United States, Earth.”

“Thank you for that clarification, Dean,” Cas says, deadpan, looking at the map momentarily, and then back up at them. “Good luck.”

Dean does a double take.

“What? Aren’t you coming?” he asks.

Cas shakes his head.

“I’m going to stay here and help Wormwood search for a cure.” He raises an eyebrow at Dean. “Do you have an issue with that?” He’s not trying to goad Dean into a fight- at least, he doesn’t think he is. He’s just so tired of his decisions being questioned by Dean, and sometimes those frustrations manifest themselves before he can stop them.

“Uh- no, I guess not.” Dean says, seemingly taken aback by Cas’ abruptness. “I’ll go pack a bag, then.” He claps Sam robotically on the shoulder and leaves, the set of his shoulders tight.

Sam’s not glaring at Cas, but he does seem put out.

“Does this really still have to be an issue?” he asks, and then, more gently, “Trust me, I think I know how you feel more than anyone else.”

Cas nods, smile small.

“Thank you, Sam.”

Sam inclines his head at both Cas and Wormwood, and then follows Dean’s path out of the room.

Cas takes the piece of map off the book and places it in the center of the table, and starts flipping through the book again.

The book Wormwood is looking through has obviously been in someone’s hand before, as there are notes scribbled in all the columns.

“Whose work is this?” she asks, pointing out a small section flushing out angelic communication methods.

Cas leans over to look, and is surprised to find it’s Kevin’s.

“That’s… a friend’s of ours,” Cas explains, “Someone else who’s living in the bunker.”

“These are incredibly detailed notes,” she enthuses, “Am I going to meet this friend?”

“I highly doubt it. He’s, ah, been quite busy lately.” The last part isn’t actually a lie, as Kevin has practically secluded himself in his room, only leaving at strange times of night to raid the kitchen. He seems determined to contact Chuck, even though any attempt to ask him how it’s going is met with a glare and a grunt. Cas is half positive he’s working on another project as well, but when he voiced this opinion to Dean, Dean had just laughed and said, “Yeah, his right hand, probably.”

At Wormwood’s inquisitive stare, Cas somewhat clarifies, “There are more things going on right now than just fallen angels.” He thinks of the phone call from Charlie informing them that two more Supernatural books have been published, detailing their exploits with the alpha shapeshifter and the Winchesters’ first dealings with Balthazar and the heavenly weapons. Cas tries not to think of it as the time he tortured a child, but the thought remains, heavy, in his mind. In his spare time, (however little he got during the civil war) he went to check on Aaron Birch. It didn’t do much to relieve his guilt, despite the fact that Aaron has grown up to be an outstanding young man.

“It’s not another war, is it?” She asks worriedly, eyes huge. Cas knows the angels in the stars weren’t affected near as much during the war, but he had felt them weeping, regardless.

“It’s… complicated,” he says honestly. There’s really no other way to describe the myriad of threats they’re facing right now. “There are many moving pieces.”

Wormwood doesn’t reply, but bends over her book again so that her hair is blocking her face, leaving Cas little opportunity to pick up the conversation again- not that he wants to, really, but he also doesn’t want her mad at him. He’s had enough angels angry at him for quite a long time, he thinks.

They work in silence for the next half hour, the only sound in the library the turning of pages and, occasionally, the scrape of chair legs against the floor as Cas adjusts his seat.

Dean and Sam roll through the library then, bags slung over each of their shoulders.

“Okay,” Dean announces, “We’re off.” He looks at Cas like he wants to say something, but addresses Wormwood instead, “Hey, Adler isn’t an angel’s name, is it?”

“No.”

Dean shakes his head, obviously annoyed.

“Where the hell do I know it from, then?” he mutters to himself. “Whatever. Bye, kids. Don’t throw any parties while we’re gone.” His tone is light but his eyes are pained when they meet Cas’.

Sam waves, and he and Dean make their way up the stairs to the front door. He goes through first, and just as Dean is about to shut it behind him, Cas practically sprints out of his chair to stand at the base of the stairs.

“Dean!” he calls, and Dean tells Sam to wait a second and leans over the railing to meet Cas’ gaze, expectant.

He chews on his tongue for a moment, not even sure what he wants to say. He just doesn’t want to part badly again. Last time they parted frostily had been when Dean, Sam, and Charlie went to face Abaddon, and though he had never mentioned it, Cas had been out of his mind with worry the entire time. What if the last thing he says to Dean is some ridiculous jab just because they’d been fighting? Or even worse, something completely inane, like complaining about Sam leaving the milk out on the kitchen counter again?

It’s not much better than a jab, but Cas manages to pull a, “Just be careful,” out his throat. It burns on its way out, like it’s not what he _should_ be saying.

He expects Dean to mock him for it, but instead, Dean’s entire expression softens.

“We’ll be home in one piece,” he promises, and then hesitates as well. If Cas hadn’t had the last eight years (counting the year Dean spent at Lisa’s and the year they spent together in Purgatory) of Dean’s friendship, he would have claimed their relationship one of trepidation, what with the way they’re speaking now, despite all their clashes in times past. Neither of them just ever seem to be able to find the right words, though Cas wouldn’t be surprised if they both died trying.

“You watch out for yourself, too,” Dean says, surprisingly tender, before turning around and shutting the front door behind him.

Cas stands still for a moment, staring up at the now closed door. He never knows to feel after conversations like these. It’s like he and Dean are always so frigid at the beginning of conversations, and it’s only once they’re almost done snapping at each other that they finally thaw out. After all this time, he’s not sure he and Dean know how to be anything else.

There’s always the in between moments, though. The times when Cas will catch Dean early in the morning, passing by each other in the hallway, one on their way to get coffee and one returning with it. When Dean’s watching television and offers to explain what’s going on and why it’s important, patting the cushion beside him. Cas hovering while Dean’s making dinner, watching in fascination at how quickly and evenly Dean can chop vegetables.

It’s when the big issues creep up on them again that things start to grow wrong. The life ending, world shattering issues that no normal people have to deal with. Unfortunately, for Sam and Dean, world shattering issues are about just as common as a cup of coffee these days, and for Cas, things aren’t far behind.

He stands there at the base of the staircase, feeling Wormwood’s eyes on his back, and tries to parse out a semblance of a conclusion. In the small amount of allotted time he has before Wormwood asks him what’s wrong, (and because, these days, allotted time is growing ever rarer it seems) he tries to take a step back, to assess his relationship with Dean from a different perspective.

What if he and Dean were just ‘normal people’? It’s a ridiculous notion to entertain, he knows, but he’s humoring himself for the moment.

What if he and Dean had met at their normal jobs, or in a normal grocery store lineup? What if they ran into each other in the hallway at school and accidentally bumped heads when they both bent down to start picking up their things? What if Cas had accidentally walked away with Dean’s book and he had to search him out during lunch to give it back, and they got to talking? What if they met at a New Year’s party, or through a mutual friend, or literally any other way people meet each other in the world?

If he was just a man, completely unassociated with the war raging between heaven and hell, and Dean had the luck of being born into a family that had no idea they should actually be afraid of the dark, what would have happened? Would they have found each other regardless? The universe has seemed pretty intent on them finding each other again, despite a multitude of deaths. Cas isn’t sure if it’s just the sheer force of their wills, pure dumb luck, or there’s something a little outside both of their understanding’s at play, here.

The most important question, perhaps, is if they _were_ just normal people, and _had_ found each other, what would they be? There would be no world to save. No apocalypse to combat and no brothers to rescue from hell. Cas thinks, the way most people live is what he describes as in betweens in the Winchesters’ lives. Carrying coffee through the hallways and sprawling in front of the tv; cooking dinner and leaving milk out on the counter to the annoyance of everyone else in the house. He considers a life made up of in betweens. A life with Dean in which they don’t go to bed every night smelling like blood or feeling the weight of their past mistakes on their shoulders.

For the most part, he and Dean are good at the in betweens, at the small moments. The easy moments, when Cas notices the crinkles around Dean’s eyes when he laughs or when Dean tries to teach him the intricacies of pool. (“You understand the concepts, Cas, but it’s all in the execution.”)

Something tugs at him, and he remembers his half-desperate plea from inside a ring of holy fire, _Dean, it’s not broken_ , and thinks, maybe it’s not them that’s broken, but everything around them.

***

“We’ll stop somewhere for the night once we pass through Denver,” Dean suggests as they pull onto I-70 just outside Lebanon, windows rolled down and some early days Boston pumping through the speakers. “Sound good?”

Sam is staring out the window, probably being melancholy about something or other, and Dean just chalks it up to existential dissatisfaction. He knows the feeling.

It’s strange how the years have changed him, he thinks as they speed down I-70, finally giving in and rolling the windows up. When he was younger, this feeling of being on the road, of the asphalt under the Impala’s tires and listening to, ironically, Peace of Mind, while the scenery zooms by at 80 miles per hour was his ideal life.

It’s still _nice_ , he supposes. But his back aches in a way it didn’t use to when he drove for long periods of time, and every time they find themselves in another dumpy motel room, he feels his desire for his bed in the bunker grow ten times stronger.

 The last thing he wants is to get flabby. At least being on the road all the time kept them alert and moving. The bunker allows them a much more sedentary life, and depending on how much longer Dean’s planning to stick with this gig (until he dies, right?), he might have to watch himself.

“What do you think so far?” Dean asks, deciding to put some feelers out. “Of the bunker?”

Sam, who’s still staring out the window, shifts to look at Dean.

“What about it?” Sam asks.

“Like… how do you feel about it?” Dean tries not to ask questions that sound like something a therapist would ask, but with Sam he figures it doesn’t matter because it’s not like either of them are ever going to sit down with a shrink.

Sam gives him a weird look.

“It’s fine,” he says cautiously, like he’s not sure what Dean’s looking for in his answer, but would rather placate him than disgruntle him. “It has a thicker door than any motels we’ve ever stayed in and the library’s never closed.”

It’s as good an answer as any, and yet Dean finds himself disgruntled regardless.

“Yeah, but I mean as a… place to live, y’know?” For some reason, his tongue trips on the word ‘home’ and he’s not sure why. He’s called it home before, but maybe it’s the context this time around that’s giving him cold feet.

Sam’s expression changes slowly, like a cloud momentarily eclipsing the sun.

“Dean,” he starts in one of those ‘We’ve talked about this before but you didn’t want to listen so you conveniently forgot about it’ tones. “I’ve told you more than once this-” he gestures vaguely around him, “is it for me. We finish this tablet business, and I’m out. I’m done.”

Dean tries not to feel like he’s just swallowed a snowball, but it’s almost formidable how quickly the loneliness seeps back in, like he’d been building some sort of house of denial made out of cards and all it took was one breath from Sam to knock them all down. Minus the occasional bout of homicidal revenge, Sam never wanted this life. He ran away from it to go to school, and Dean had to practically beg him to leave school again to pursue it.

“Right,” Dean says, way too casually. “Of course, yeah. No, Sam, I was just asking your opinion, y’know?” he snorts, brushes it off like it’s a dust bunny on his jacket. “I ain’t asking you to sign a lease or anything.”

“Dean,” Sam says, softer, “You know this doesn’t change-”

“Yeah, Sam, I get it,” Dean snaps, ignoring the feeling of curdling dread in his gut. He adopts a ridiculous voice, a hideous impression of Sam, “‘We’ll still be brothers, Dean, just like the good old days, and I’ll drive my fancy car to pick up my fancy wife from work and my fancy kids from fancy soccer practise and I won’t ever be ashamed to have my brother who still kills vampires for a living and smells like blood at the end of every goddam day over for Sunday roast.’”

Sam’s face is very still, and neither of them says anything for a moment.

After a beat, Sam’s mouth twitches, like he’s not sure if he wants to laugh or not.

“That was a horrible impression,” he informs Dean.

Dean adjusts his grip on the steering wheel.

“I know,” he says, surly, and then adds, “Like you’d drive a fancy car. You’d drive a fuckin’ Toyota or something equally _sensible_.”

Sam allows himself a huff of probably forced laughter, but his face quickly settles into something more serious.

“There were no ‘good old days’, Dean,” he says quietly, looking straight out the windshield. “I was drawn into this when I was six months old and you had to watch your own mother burning on the ceiling when you were four. Human memories only go back till about that age, so if you’re lucky, you have maybe, like, a couple days’ worth of memories you can call ‘the good old days’,” he shifts in his seat, leaning back and crossing his arms, “And even those days were you trying to clean up dad’s messes. So, believe whatever you want, Dean, but just know that looking back on the last couple of years isn’t like looking through a high school yearbook for me. It’s just- it’s just painful.”

The last words are more of a confession than anything else, and even though Dean’s heart is sitting between his shoes right now, he at least _tries_ to see it from Sam’s point of view. Sam’s had it rough since before he can even remember it. Sam was slated to be the leader of all demons. Sam was meant to be Lucifer’s vessel. Sam spent years in the cage and spent months soulless. Sam had to deal with a broken wall and psychosis so strong he got himself hit by a car and stuck in a psychiatric ward.

Sam deserves to get out. There’s no denying it. Dean’s job is to look after Sam, and right now that dictates him helping Sam ‘get out’.

“Yeah,” Dean finally answers, mouth dry. “Yeah, Sammy, we’ll get you squared away.”

Sam opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but after a moment of consideration closes it again and goes back to staring out the window.

***

It’s just past one in the morning when Cas’ phone vibrates on the table beside him. He had sent Wormwood off to get some sleep about an hour ago, promising her that he would go to bed soon as well.

He picks up his phone to see that he has a text from Dean: **you awake?**

He quickly types back: **yes** , hitting send.

Twenty seconds later his phone starts ringing.

“Dean?” he answers immediately, his voice scratchy with disuse.

“Dude, you said I didn’t wake you.”

Cas clears his throat.

“I’ve just been working in silence for the past hour or so,” he explains. “Have you and Sam stopped for the night?”

“Yup. In a town in Colorado called Glenwood Springs.” He huffs laughter. “Apparently it’s the most fun town in America, if the signs are anything to go by.”

Cas raises an eyebrow. “What’s on the signs?”

“’The Most Fun Town in America’,” Dean repeats.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Gotta be honest though, it could be the most fun town in the universe but when rooms cost fifty five bucks a night the beds still suck ass.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Cas offers, marking his page in the book in front of him and shutting it. He rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand and tries to stifle a yawn.

“Are you going to bed?” Dean asks, “If you want to go-”

“No, no,” Cas interrupts quickly, “It’s fine.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a moment before Dean says, “So did you two manage to find anything?”

“No,” Cas says, shaking his head even though he knows Dean can’t see him. “We’ve been through many books and manuscripts, but no such luck yet.”

“Y’know, I don’t get it,” Dean says, and it sounds like he’s shaking his head as well, except in bemusement, “You guys are angels. Shouldn’t you have, like, the combined brainpower of a super computer?”

“Contrary to popular belief,” Cas retorts wryly, “Angels don’t know everything. If you’ll recall,” he continues, voice turning bitter, “I didn’t know the real ingredients to the spell supposedly closing the gates of heaven.”

He can practically hear Dean swallow on the other end, and Cas immediately regrets saying it.

“You know that’s not your fault, right?” he asks quietly, no traces of anything but genuine desire for Cas to understand in his voice, “You thought you were-”

“-Doing the right thing.” Cas finishes Dean’s sentence for him. “Yes. I’m aware.” He pauses, and for one, blinding second he wants Dean beside him so badly he almost combusts. “I seem to be incredibly bad at that, however.”

He can practically hear Dean smiling sadly on the other end.

“We’re with you, buddy,” he promises. “I know I wasn’t super stoked about your friend there staying in the bunker, but we’re gonna help you get everyone back upstairs however we can. We-” he stops mid-sentence, sounding like he’s almost physically holding himself back from saying something.

“What, Dean?”

“It’s nothing, never mind.”

“Dean, you can tell me,” Cas implores. “You were the one who said open lines of communications, right?”

“Of course you would bring that up if you could work it in your favor,” Dean sighs dramatically, fondness bleeding through his exacerbation.

Cas waits patiently.

Dean sighs one more time, before saying, much more carefully, “I was just going to say that, um, we can also help search for your grace, y’know, if that’s something you’d want…” he trails off for a moment, as if trying to figure out how to word the rest of his sentence. “I didn’t want to bring it up until you did,” he admits, “Figured it was kind of a sensitive subject and you’d get around to talking about it on your own time…”

“Oh,” Cas says, surprised into speaking. He stares hard at the book cover in front of him. His thoughts seem to be churning exceptionally fast at the moment, but it’s like they’re made of syrup, too thick to really move anywhere or get anything done. “It’s, um, not something I’ve given a terrible amount of thought to,” he admits. If he’s being honest, he’s not even sure if that’s true, but speaking about this to Dean is kind of whiting out his other faculties at the moment, and he’s not sure why. It’s like there’s a profound silence ringing in his ears, pressing in on him.

“Oh,” Dean repeats, in the same surprised tone as Cas. “Well I mean, obviously no rush or anything,” he says hastily, “Or if you do want to rush then we can do that too-”

“I’m sure we’ll figure it out,” Cas offers, and uses it as a life raft for the both of them to cling onto to save them from this conversation. Maybe ‘open lines of communication’ was a little bit of a pipedream for them at this stage, especially if neither of them seems to be able to figure out what the issue is.

“Anyways,” Dean rushes out, “I just wanted to make sure everything’s going alright over there. You guys obviously haven’t burned the place down yet,” he jokes weakly.

“The bunker will be in perfect condition when you return,” Cas assures him solemnly.

“Right. Good. Okay, uh, Cas, I should probably go,” Dean says, suddenly sounding immensely tired, and Cas grips his phone a little tighter. “Me and Sam are going to try to get an early start tomorrow so we have as much daylight as possible to look around once we get there.”

“That’s an adequate plan,” he acquiesces, and Dean snorts inelegantly.

In the space between Cas’ jibe and their goodbyes, there’s a small, in between pocket of time where they’re both just breathing quietly into the phone. It’s the most relaxed Cas has felt during the entire phone call, and he thinks, _we’re good with the in betweens_.

“Good luck with Wormwood,” Dean says wearily, almost like he’s dissatisfied with something, “Night, Cas.”

“Good night, Dean,” Cas says quietly, and hangs up the phone.

***

Cas _is_ actually quiet tired, but he doesn’t go to bed. Instead, he makes his way to the roof of the bunker, and is surprised (even though perhaps he shouldn’t be) to find Wormwood up there already, wearing one of Sam’s sweaters. It completely dwarfs her small frame, and a warm rush of affection runs through Cas when he sees her, huddled beneath the stars all on her own.

It’s a clear night tonight, the sky a dark, inky navy with the stars blinking brightly. Cas goes to sit beside her, wrapping his arms around his knees. It’s chilly, and the air smells smoky, almost. Dean told him the other day that this is the smell of incoming fall. “One of the greatest smells in the world, Cas,” he had laughed, slinging an arm across Cas’ shoulders, “Right up there with homemade apple pie and pine trees at Christmas.” Cas does enjoy the smell, very much. He’s not sure if it reminds him of Dean just because it does, or because Dean was the first one to tell him what he was smelling. Regardless, it suits him. It’s like new beginnings.

“I thought you were going to bed,” he says to Wormwood, face still turned skywards. In his peripheral vision, he can see her shrug.

“I thought _you_ were going to bed,” she counters.

“Point taken.”

They sit in silence, and Cas contemplates the stars.

He never spent much time among the star angels. He knows there are others up there, but there were never enough to be of use to him, which also meant there were never enough that he felt them to be a threat when he was razing heaven and earth. Technically, they’re still a part of heaven’s garrison, but in practice, they’re generally left to do their own thing.

Cas wishes he had taken the time to visit them more. Angels floating around the universe, visiting dying stars and asteroid belts and darting through the poisonous (to humans) atmosphere of other planets. Outer space is on the quieter side of angel radio, though Cas has always suspected that’s more of a psychological effect than anything, since neither time nor distance should ever hamper an angel’s connection to their brethren.

The calm, soft silence of space is like a quiet he has never known. Never harsh or intrusive, no sharp edges or uncomfortable pressure. It’s incredibly tranquil, so unlike the space battle movies Dean is always watching. Now that he’s human, he can relate it to any number of comforts; the first sip of coffee in the morning, taking a hot shower and sluicing off all the grime of a day’s work, or even here, in this moment, just sitting in comfortable silence and watching the sky.

It’s amazing, he thinks, that he can now compare the amazing, vast wonder that is floating through space with what he used to consider such pithy human things.

They are _his_ things, now, as well.

Wormwood shifts beside him to lie on her back.

“They look so different from down here,” she observes quietly, tone bittersweet. “They’re incredibly beautiful but so… small.”

“I think they burn bright enough for most humans,” Cas assures her, voice a low rumble. “Not many of them could understand the true vastness of the universe.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not what I meant,” she corrects gently, “I just meant… that it’s strange because the stars look so small from here, but if I were up there among them, it would be the Earth that looks tiny.” A small smile appears on her lips. “Obviously I understand the science behind it, but I think the words themselves stand on their own merit.” She turns her head, gaze full of moonlight meeting Cas’. “Don’t you?”

Cas doesn’t answer, and tips his head backwards again. After a moment, he lies out on his back as well, his left arm a hair’s breadth away from Wormwood’s right.

“Would you ever go back?” He asks, “If you could, I mean.”

Instead of answering, Wormwood grabs his hand and holds it out to the sky. “Point,” she instructs, and Cas does. “That right there is where Ariel and I spent most of our time,” she says dreamily, “Nestled right in our own little pocket of the cosmos.” Her face falls. “I hope they find her,” she murmurs, but Cas doesn’t think she’s talking to him. Her eyes are staring upwards, glimmering.

“I can’t help it, but I’ve hurt people,” she continues, voice still ethereal, moonbeams hitting the small waves of a lake at night, scattering through the water. “It’s all been its own adventure for sure, but I think my journey is a round trip,” she turns her head to look at Cas, eyes sad, and it’s only then he realizes that she’s answering his question. “I don’t belong here,” she admits. “I couldn’t take my vessel properly, and all the water around me turns bitter and lethal. Besides,” she chuckles softly, plucking at the fabric of her sweater, “Angels don’t exactly have to wear a work uniform.”

She’s speaking so genuinely. Cas can hear the homesickness echo in her words, can see it etched into every crease on her face. He can see how her body seems to drink the starlight in, like it’s revitalizing it. If she were a compass, she would be pointed directly at the North Star.

“If I could take you back myself,” Cas says wistfully, “I would.”

It’s only as he utters these words that he gets an idea.

***

“We’ve been looking at this all wrong,” Cas is speaking quickly, incredibly excited. He can’t believe it didn’t occur to him when he was skimming over it earlier, but now that the idea is in his head, it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Wormwood is following him back into the library, confusion radiating from her like a beacon.

He starts searching through the huge pile of books they’d left on the table, trying to remember where he’d read it. “We’ve been looking for a way to cure your affliction,” he says, quickly flipping through an old leather tome he thinks might be the one. “When we should have been looking for a way to get you back into the sky.” When he’s unsuccessful in that book, he tosses it to the other side of the table and keeps searching.

“I can’t just return to the sky,” Wormwood says, though he can hear the hopefulness in her voice. “We got _cast out_.”

Cas shakes his head. “You were collateral damage,” he explains, flipping through a smaller book now, closer to a journal. “ _Heaven_ is closed. The stars aren’t.” When he finds the page he’s looking for, he feels his face break out into a wide grin. “You could go back,” he says, eyes flashing, holding the journal out to her and pointing eagerly to the title at the top of the page, “If you had someone to take you.”

Wormwood takes the journal from him, staring down at the cramped handwriting.

“Rolla-Mano?” she asks. “I’ve never heard of this.”

“It’s an old legend from the Aborigines of Australia,” he says, taking the journal back and reciting, “According to this, Rolla-Mano was the old man of the sea who ruled a kingdom beneath the waves. One day, he went fishing in a swamp close to shore, and spotted two women who he liked, and decided he wanted to capture them. He hid amongst the braches of a mangrove tree, and when the women were close enough he caught them in his fishing net. One of the women escaped, and dove into the water. Rolla-Mano jumped in after her with a lit fire stick in his hand, and as soon as it touched the water, the sparks hissed and scattered to the sky.” He pauses, checking that Wormwood is still following. “This is a legend on how the stars were made,” he says significantly. “This could be exactly what we’re looking for. Because afterwards, when Rolla-Mano couldn’t find the other woman, he took the first one back into the sky with him, to become the evening star.”

“I’m not _actually_ a star, you know that, right?” Wormwood double checks. “I’m an angel.”

“I’m aware of that. We just need the means, not the end.”

“Who says Rolla-Mano won’t try to keep me like he did the other woman?” Wormwood asks. “And, if we could even get this to work, we’re in America. This is an _Australian_ legend.”

“You don’t have to answer to anyone but yourself,” Cas assures her. “After all,” he insists wryly, “If someone could escape Rolla-Mano just by diving into a swamp I’m sure you could evade him easily enough with the entirety of the universe at your disposal.”

Wormwood seems pleased with that answer, but still skeptical.

“And the geography of the situation?”

Cas shrugs. “The Winchesters met three Greek gods in Montana last year,” he says, “I don’t think geography will be much of an issue.”

Wormwood still seems unconvinced, but says nothing else on the matter.

 “It’s just the matter of using the right summoning spell,” Cas insists, “and finding the right setting…” his voice trails off as his brain starts whirring. “I think I know the place.”

***

They make their way through the bunker, and Cas leads Wormwood out the back way he used to take when his own humanity got to be too much. He pushes open the wooden door that’s still threatening to fall off its hinges, and inclines his head. “It’s right over here.”

They lay the ingredients for the spell out by the pond’s edge, Cas checking the time on his phone nervously. It’s still late (or early) but if Rolla-Mano takes too long to show, they might have to wait another day.

“So you’re sure of the plan?” Cas asks as he starts mixing herbs in the pestle and mortar they had brought. “You’re still okay with it?”

“I want to go home,” Wormwood says, avoiding the question.

Cas stops his mixing.

“That’s not a ‘yes’,” he says. “We don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” she says, looking uncertain for a moment. Then, “Yes,” she says firmly.

Cas smiles, ignoring the pull in his gut that informs him he’ll be alone again after Wormwood leaves. It’s not like they even know each other. Not _really_.

She is, however, the first sister he’s been able to help instead of hurt in a long time. Whether he wants it to or not, that counts for something.

“I miss the stars,” Wormwood says as Cas start mixing again, her eyes cast to the sky. “Your friends will find Ariel, right?” she asks after a couple minutes of silence, worry seeping into her tone.

“If anyone can find Ariel, it’ll be them,” Cas guarantees. “But you have other family still up there, don’t you?” he questions. “The other stars?”

Wormwood nods, eyes watery.

“I love one of them,” she says softly, and Cas almost can’t hear her over the sound of the pestle hitting the mortar. He slows down the mixing, not paying attention to his stirring anymore. “I miss her more than anything else.”

“It was only the one star you missed, then,” Cas realizes, his stomach lurching again.

“If she had fallen with me, we would have made it just fine here,” Wormwood says, and there’s a certainty in her voice that Cas could never doubt. “Sometimes it doesn’t matter where you end up, but who you end up there with.” she says gently, perhaps pointedly, eyes glued to Cas’.

Cas looks back down at the task at hand. There’s an inexplicable lump in his throat.

“It’s not that easy.” He doesn’t try to sound harsh, but the words come out cutting anyway.

“I know,” she says simply, and lets the matter drop.

They finish preparing for the ritual in silence.

When Cas is finished mixing the herbs, he pours them into a big bowl.

“Does your vessel understand what’s going to happen?” he asks, the two of them standing up. Cas throws the satchel full of all the supplies over his shoulder. His only job now is to stay out of site until it’s over.

“Yes. We’ve said our goodbyes.”

“Right. Well, I suppose this is goodbye for us as well,” Cas says uncomfortably, trying to bat away the loneliness. He does his best to smile. “If it’s ever feasible, I’ll come visit,” he promises.

She smiles sadly at him.

“Maybe as an astronaut,” she says, eyes kind, “But not as an angel.”

Cas makes a choked sound in the back of his throat and reaches forward to hug her. She hugs him back just as fiercely.

“Thank you,” he whispers into her hair, “Truly.” He presses his lips to the crown of her head, and is suddenly reminded of watching Jimmy Novak and his daughter, Claire, before he made himself known. Jimmy would often embrace her, just like this.

“I said we don’t judge,” Wormwood whispers, voice watery, “But I’ve changed my mind.” She pulls back, and lays her palm on his cheek again. Her eyes shine in the starlight reflected there. “You’re a good man, Castiel.” She takes the matchbook out of his hand, and plucks a match out, striking it. For a moment, the light washes over the both of their faces, the single light in a world of darkness. Cas nods, his eyes hot and itchy, and retreats to the other side of the pond, making sure to conceal himself well behind a rather thick tree.

Wormwood drops the match into the bowl, reciting the required Latin, and it ignites.

They wait.

***

Rolla-Mano is not what Cas expects. It only occurs to him afterwards that the legend never stated he was a deity.

Instead, Rolla-Mano is nothing more than an indistinct form that looks more like a mirage than anything else. Cas can see the way the atmosphere ripples around him, like heat waves off the pavement in summer.

It’s quick, much quicker than Cas expects. Wormwood lights another match, and once it catches Rolla-Mano’s attention, he immediately flocks to it. He follows her as she walks backwards into the pond, breaking the stillness of the surface, ripples expanding outwards from her intrusions. The reflection of the moon in the water distorts.

Once she’s standing waist high in the water, she waits for Rolla-Mano to reach her. He comes to a stop in front of her, the moonlight pouring through him and shattering, like it would traveling through a faceted diamond. She waves out the match she’s carrying, and ignites a new one.

She takes a moment to turn around, to lock eyes with Cas one more time.

Then Wormwood throws the match down into the lake, and the entire surface of the water erupts into sparks, crackling and snapping. Cas yells out in surprise, he can’t help it.

Then he’s practically sprinting forward, yanking the towel from inside the bag, splashing into the lake to wrap it around her shoulders.

“Hi, C-c-castiel,” she says, teeth chattering, smiling almost apologetically, like she just rammed into his cart by accident in the grocery store.

“Hello, Libby,” he greets.

***

Libby isn’t interested in staying around any longer than she has to, apparently. She calls for a cab, thanks Cas, and then she’s off, disappearing into the night.

Cas stands outside for a couple minutes after seeing Libby off. He looks up at the sky, and it looks exactly the same as it did before.

He doesn’t know it, but 515 miles away and unable to sleep is Dean, standing outside a crappy motel on the outskirts of Glenwood Springs, Colorado, looking up at exactly the same sky.

***

The only evidence Cas has that any of this even happened is the mess of books still all over the library, and the glass of water on the table that Wormwood only took a sip of.

He collapses into a chair and stares at the glass, feeling the impulse to drink it start thrumming its way through his nervous system- which is absurd, obviously. If he drinks the water, he’s going to die. Such a concentrated dose, he would die almost immediately, and painfully as well.

He drinks the water.

He doesn’t die.


	8. Over the Hills and Far Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title taken from the led zeppelin song of the same name
> 
> part 2/2

Cas hitchhikes to Wichita, and from there, spends a day on a Greyhound slowly chugging its way to Cedar City, Utah, where Dean will pick him up.

"You're teaching me to drive. Soon," he had informed Dean churlishly during their initial phone call the morning after Wormwood had gone back and Libby had taken off.

"Not in my car you're not," Dean had retorted. "Next time we're in Bobby's neck of the woods we'll snag one of his old junkers and set you up real nice, sound good?"

"It would sound better if I didn't have to hitchhike just to get to the bus station where I then have to board at midnight and spend over 24 hours in a cramped seat and sweat a lot."

"If it makes you feel better there'll be a quality room waiting for you at-" Dean pauses, shuffling around for a minute, "the Moonlight Inn." He laughs. "See? Very original. Homegrown."

Cas had cast a look wistfully back at the bunker he hadn't even left yet.

"Perhaps I should just remain here," he said, though he knows that of course he's going to go. He owes it to Wormwood, at the very least.

"Aww but Cas," Dean had pouted sarcastically, "it's only been a day and you know how much I miss you."

There had been a weird undercurrent to his tone that Cas didn’t –and still doesn’t- want to think about, like maybe Dean’s not being near as sarcastic as he sounds.

However, Cas finds himself feeling less sentimental and more dirty and aching and tired as the bus finally pulls into the station in Cedar City. He's violently reminded of getting off the bus in Topeka months ago, seeing Dean for the first time since he had fallen. He had been nigh catatonic then; now, at least, he's somewhat used to the undercurrent of exhaustion that comes along with humanity.

Thankfully, Dean is already here, and he happily claps Cas on the shoulder and takes his bag for him as they walk back to the Impala.

"How you feeling?" Dean asks as they make their way through the parking lot, luckily a whole lot less warm than the last time they found themselves in this situation.

"Public transportation is a cesspool of scum and villainy,'" Cas says distastefully.

Dean laughs and pats him gingerly. "That’s the general consensus, yeah."

Dean sobers up as they get to the car, tossing the bag in the back and looking at Cas with probably more concern than is warranted.

"So everything went okay with Wormwood?" he asks, "I can't believe you actually got her back upstairs."

"The sky," Cas corrects. "Not 'upstairs',” he finger quotes, "But yes, I think she's back where she belongs."

"And you're... Okay with that?" Dean checks.

Cas hopes this isn't going the same way their phone conversation had the other night, because especially with what happened with Wormwood, he knows he doesn't want to have this talk right now, maybe ever.

"I'm fine, Dean," Cas says. "I'm fine."

Dean looks like he's about to argue up until he opens his mouth, and then concedes fully.

"Alright," he says ruefully, "next stop Bryce Canyon National Park."

***

“Where’s Sam?” Cas asks, about twenty minutes into the drive. Compared to the bus, the Impala feels like a godsend. Cas can actually stretch his legs out here.

“I think he’s asking around again,” Dean says, frustrated. “Aka the same thing we did all yesterday and the day before as well.”

“And no one’s seen anything?”

“Nope. Nada. They keep telling us to come back and ask ‘Steve’ or ‘Dan’ or some other boring name when they come on shift, because apparently there are some sort of rumors going around, it’s just a matter of talking to the right people.”

“These rumors, what do they say?” Cas asks.

Dean shrugs with one shoulder.

“Typical stuff. Weird lights, strange echoes coming from the bottom of the canyon late at night.”

“That could be any number of things.”

“Yeah, well, we’re looking for some sort of cult for fallen angels, so hopefully this is it. Run by someone named Adler, apparently- and you’re _sure_ that’s not an angel’s name?” Dean double checks.

Cas shakes his head.

“I know the name of every angel, and Adler isn’t one of them.”

Dean sighs.

“I swear this name is haunting me,” he complains, “It’s like on the tip of my tongue where I know it from.”

“We’ll find out who it is one way or another,” Cas assures him. “I’m sure when we find Ariel she’ll be able to fill in many of the gaps in our knowledge.”

“Yeah, let’s hope so.”

***

There’s- potentially, literally- about a million things Dean and Cas could be talking about right now. _Should_ be talking about.

Instead, they’ve been sitting for the last forty minutes in silence, the quiet hum of the static from a bumpkin oldies station in the background.

Dean sometimes wonders if the silences between them like these are so easy only because their lone alternative is discussing things that both of them would rather forget.

They could discuss the scenery, Dean idly muses, but you can only point out so much southwestern flatness before you’ve seen all the southwestern flatness. Besides, Cas was hanging around when there glaciers still on the continents, so Dean doubts he could add any new commentary to the mix.

They could discuss the case, even though Dean’s already filled him in on all he knows.

They could discuss their myriad of _other_ cases, but that’s just depressing since no one knows what to do about any of them.

They _could_ discuss the fact that Dean still sometimes, without express permission from his brain, touches his fingers to his cheek where a brainwashed Cas practically beat him into a pulp. They could talk about Purgatory. Or about the time Cas was suicidal. Or about the time (only a couple months ago) Cas legitimately thought he was going back to heaven forever and Dean never would have seen him again.

If they go further back, they could talk about the leviathans. Or the whole ‘working with Crowley’ gambit that was just the biggest and longest of shitshows.

But Dean’s pretty sure no one cares about that stuff except him. He’s had to shake off worse.

He once told Cas (who was actually Emmanuel at the time), that he used to be good at shaking off that stuff. Like water off a duck’s back, really. But then came Cas, who apparently wasn’t interested in being shaken off. No matter what he does, everything that he is _clings_ to Dean. It’s like he’s dug his talons in, buried his way under Dean’s skin without either of them really considering the consequences.

There’s a long, long line of people Dean’s gotten killed (or outright killed) over the years, and Cas’ name is on that list more than once. Dean’s come to accept his own toxic personality, knows that shaking hands with him is kind of like signing your own death warrant.

They’re so twisted up in each other now. Dean’s not sure if- is actually _pretty sure_ \- that his definition of family is kind of fucked up. It’s not as simple as just loving someone else, not for him, not anymore. Somewhere along the way, Dean and Dean’s perceptions got distorted, twisted into some facsimile of what they should be, and the last thing Dean knows how to do is unwind any of it.

He glances at Cas out of the corner of his eye, his face almost completely hidden in shadow minus the splash of moonlight shining through the windshield. He feels like he’s on a tightrope in regards to Cas, always uncertain about whether they’ll make it across in one piece or not. If they do, it’ll be one of the greatest accomplishments of Dean’s life.

If they don’t; well, no one expected them to make it anyway.

Cas must feel him staring, because he meets Dean’s gaze head on. It’s only a short, small moment amongst a horde of bigger thoughts pressing up and against Dean’s skull, but despite what he was just thinking, he finds himself softening under Cas’ eyes, an instance of warmth in the static, flat tundra they’re currently driving through. Something silent passes between them, and it tastes like bittersweet solidarity. 

***

The rest of the drive passes without any more existential crisis on Dean’s part, so he considers it a win.

Since it’s almost two in the morning, they decide to head back to the motel and meet up with Sam there.

“See?” Dean grins cheekily as they pull into the motel parking lot. “The Moonlight Inn in all her glory.”

“Wonderful,” Cas deadpans, not even looking out the window.

“Party pooper,” Dean accuses, grabbing Cas’ bag out of the back and leading the way to their room. He fumbles for the key for a moment, inserting it and heading in. “Welcome to Chez Motel Room.”

It’s a typical cheap motel room, no more hideous than normal. Dean drops Cas’ bag on the bed furthest from the door.

“So since there’s only two beds,” Dean says, going for non-chalant and probably missing it by a wide mile, “We’ll be sharing for however long we’re here, since I would never voluntarily force Sam’s gargantuan form on you, much less in a situation where you’re unconscious-” he plops down onto the edge of the bed, giving Cas’ bag a distracted pat. “Trust me, I’ve shared a bed with the kid enough times to have been kindly woken up by a stray fist to the face, so I’m just makin’ things easier for everyone.”

“That’s fine,” Cas says, advancing towards the bathroom with stark relief in his eyes. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Sam’ll be back in about half an hour,” Dean calls after him once the door is shut, and settles back onto the bed, closing his eyes.

 He’s halfway to asleep when he hears the shower turn off, and then after a couple minutes, the bathroom door opening. He tries to feign sleep, ignoring the fact that Cas is probably standing at the foot of their bed right now with only a towel wrapped around his waist.

Promising himself that’s he’s not _actually_ a creep, and there was no way Cas could know for sure if he would be asleep or not, Dean cracks open an eyelid.

What he sees is, in fact, infinitely better than a towel knotted at the waist.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Dean asks, doing his best not to crack up and forgetting that as of two seconds ago, he was supposedly asleep.

Cas shoots him a dewy glare. He’s wearing baggy sweat pants and possibly one of the largest t-shirts Dean’s ever seen. It completely dwarfs him.

“Since you’re seemingly so uncomfortable with my nudity at the bunker, I figured I’d do you the courtesy of covering up while we’re here,” he says huffily, dragging his bag off the end of the bed and dropping it onto the floor.

Dean tries not to notice how his mouth seems to go incredibly dry at that.

“I thought Sam would be back by now,” Cas observes, obviously unperturbed, as he slips into bed beside Dean, fussing with his pillows.

“Uh-” Dean checks his phone for a text. “Oh. He stopped for a late night burger or something.” He snorts as he reaches across Cas to drop his phone onto the nightstand, and dutifully ignores the position they’re in until he’s safely back on his own side. “Late night salad, more like.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Cas says solemnly, in the tone he’s seemed to reserve for whenever he feels like fucking with Dean.                                                                                                                                                                                                         

Dean hits him in the face with a pillow.

“Shut up.”

***

Sam eventually makes his way back to the motel room, and opens the door as quietly as he can. He knows Cas is probably exhausted after the bus, and Dean always seems to be tired regardless, so the last thing he wants to do is wake them.

As he brushes his teeth, he thinks he finally got a lead on where they should look tomorrow night (or, as he checks his watch, later tonight). Hopefully they can find what they’re looking for and get the hell out of here. According to their brotherly agreement, Sam isn’t even supposed to be here- he should be working the Supernatural books angle, but ever since Charlie’s been gone, they’ve been working together again more often than not.

He did just get a text from her today, though, telling him that the next four books have been published (apparently they’re publishing them in doubles, first one, then two, then four, etc) meaning they’ll all be out sooner than later, giving them less time to work leads. Charlie thinks it’s some kind of marketing gimmick, but Sam thinks whoever’s actually putting them out just wants them out of their hands as soon as possible.

Apparently one of the newly published books is the case they worked in Limestone, Illinois, when his soulless-self let Dean be turned into a vampire.

He exits the bathroom and falls onto his own bed, taking the allotted amount of time to feel like an absolutely shitty brother for it all over again, and can’t help but cast his gaze over to where Dean and Cas are sleeping soundly on the other side of the room.

Sam’s done his best to stay out of Dean and Cas’ business in regards to… Dean and Cas. But sometimes he can’t help observing. He knows better than anyone (except them of course, but then again, maybe some perspective does wonders)  that what they’ve got going is pretty one of a kind, pretty complicated, and pretty intense. They’re facing each other, and Sam can’t imagine they fell asleep like that- too much vulnerability for them- but that just means they both turned completely over in their sleep at separate times, potentially seeking the other out.

Sam smiles sadly, because with Dean and Cas, it’s never been easy, but it’s always been tragic.

***

They find themselves with nothing to do the next morning, having to wait until nightfall to go and properly check out the canyon.

“Actually,” Sam butts in, “It’s not a canyon, but natural ampithe-”

“So, anyway, about the _canyon_ ,” Dean practically shouts over Sam, being obnoxious for the sake of it.

Cas figures it's because they aren’t used to sharing rooms as much anymore, what with the bunker being more than big enough for all of them and then some. Dean’s been hyperactive all day, Sam taught and aggravated, and it's one of the rare times when Cas sees them acting like every other pair of siblings in the world. Even when they're sniping at each other like they are, at least it's about inane things like smelly feet and movie snack preferences. Cas greatly favors this over arguing about the apocalypse. Much less is at stake here.

Once Dean’s built a full-fledged blanket fort that extends from his side of the room to Sam’s, Sam finally loses it.

"Oh my god, Dean, just get the hell out. Go to a movie or a strip club or something." Sam snaps, grabbing the blanket above his head and ripping it off the wall, subsequently collapsing Dean’s entire fort.

“ _Dude_.” Dean grumbles, sliding off his bed and grabbing the Impala’s keys off the nightstand, making sure to jostle Sam’s bed on his way out. “Fine. But you have to clean up.”

"Fine by me," he says shortly.

Dean opens the door, turning to look back at Cas. "You comin'?"

Cas casts a quick look in Sam’s direction, but he's staring furiously down at his book.

"I'll be out in a minute," Cas says. "I just need to grab my phone."

Dean grunts noncommittally and makes sure to slam the door behind him.

Cas digs through his bag for his phone as Sam determinedly doesn't look at or acknowledge him.

He finally locates the phone, and pauses with his hand on the doorknob.

"Goodbye, Sam," he says. "You can still come along if you want, for some fresh air."

Sam snorts. "There's fresh air right outside that door-" he points, "and the whole point of this is just putting a little space between me and Dean right now." He looks back down at his book. "Have fun on your date,"

"What?"

Sam looks up from his book slowly, patience worn thin.

"Have fun," he says pointedly, a clear dismissal.

Cas leaves the room, feeling slightly off balance.

This isn’t a date.

***

As it turns out, the only place they can find at this time in the afternoon that’s playing movies is an old, rundown theater somewhere just off the highway in a town that doesn’t even seem to have a name.

“Christ, how much do you wanna bet there’s been like thirty murders in this place,” Dean mutters to Cas as they walk in, the daylight immediately filtered and muted through the incredibly thick glass windows.

“You basically murder things for a living,” Cas comments flippantly as they stand in a short queue for tickets, earning him a strange look from the woman they’re standing behind.

“Haha,” Dean laughs falsely, eyes sliding to the lady in front of them. “Murder the numbers in the _stock market_ , you mean.”

Cas’ brow creases in confusion. “No, I mean that you hunt and kill superna-”

Dean steps on his foot and inclines his head towards the woman, who Cas can tell by her stiff posture and slightly turned head is listening intently to their conversation. He leans in close to Cas with a muttered, “Indoor voice, Cas.”

Cas wises up immediately. He rarely slips up nowadays- generally, any comments like that are usually on purpose and to annoy Dean- but sometimes he still forgets, just another reminder that he actually doesn’t belong, that he’s still new to this and wasn’t meant to be this in the first place.

He can feel himself about to slip, can feel his mindset from those first few weeks after the fall encroaching like a storm cloud, and he braces for the break as best he can.

“Hey,” Dean gently shakes him, hands on his arms, “You still with me, man?” He catches Cas’ gaze and forces him to hold it, face careful but determined. He’s leaning forwards, giving them the airs of privacy, head bent towards Cas and personal space between them nil. “It’s no problem, Cas, trust me. You should hear how me ‘n’ Sam talk in diners sometimes. I once saw a lady cover her kid’s ears when I started talking about a recent ghoul kill. We all slip.”

Dean knows, even though Cas has never said out loud just how lost he still is. How sad he still is. He’s grateful that Dean seems to have the ability to not only know how to pull him back from the cliff, but also when exactly he’s walking towards the precipice again.

Dean lets go of Cas, fingers slightly trailing down his arms.

“We alright?” Dean asks cautiously, still standing close.

“Alright?” Cas asks jovially, adopting a similar tone to Dean’s false laughter, “What could be more alright than the _stock market_?”

It’s a hilariously delayed response, and Dean snorts laughter, “Okay, Nic Cage, calm down,” and Cas doesn’t know who that is, but finds himself grinning regardless.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, just before they’re called up to the counter, and Dean looks at him fondly.

“No worries,” he promises, and they share a private glance before buying tickets to a movie Cas doesn’t even know the name of.

***

They manage to stay away from the motel until about midnight- after the movie, they head to a local diner for some burgers, making sure to linger over their fries. From there, Dean’s able to coax Cas into a couple of drinks at the local bar, (with plenty of water in between since they _are_ working a case tonight), and they sit across from each other in a booth nestled in a dim corner.

Cas has been meditating on the word _date_ all day, unable to get it out of his head since Sam mentioned it, even if it was just in jest.

To his (albeit limited) understanding, the difference between a date and just spending time together are the intentions behind it. Often, people who go on dates are attempting to pursue a relationship, generally sexual in nature, but not always. People who are just spending time together have no such intentions.

“What are _your_ intentions, Dean?” Cas asks just as Dean’s swallowing a mouthful of beer.

Dean puts down his drink immediately, swallowing hard.

“My intentions towards what?” he asks, trying to hide it but his voice wavers a bit on the end, like a soloist who can’t quite hold the note as long as they were supposed to. Due to the substandard lighting, his face is half hidden in shadow, the uncertainty only evident from the hunched way he’s sitting.

Cas nurses his almost empty bottle, not sure where he’s going with this, but he thinks he may have drank his last beer a little too quickly. His body is still adjusting and figuring out how much alcohol it can take, and Dean’s taken to jokingly calling him a lightweight.

The way Dean is looking at him right now is the furthest thing from a joke, however, his grip on his bottle tight and his eyes glinting in the darkness.  

“What are you talking about, Cas?” he asks lowly, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table.

Cas mirrors his position, knocking his bottle over in the process. They both stare at it as it rolls around in circles on the tabletop until Dean finally reaches out to still it. He moves it to his side of the table, putting it as far away from Cas as possible.

“Are you drunk?” he asks accusingly, giving the bottle a second, angry glance as if it’s to blame for this whole mess.

“No,” Cas answers immediately. He considers, tipping his head, “Buzzed, maybe.”

Dean makes an annoyed noise in the back of his throat.

“Dude, we’re on the job tonight.”

“You were the one who suggested a bar,” Cas says confrontationally, gesturing in a way that has Dean rescuing his own beer bottle from the flight path of Cas’ limbs.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Dean says harshly, sounding like he’s gearing up for a fight, “I wasn’t expecting you to-” he stops midsentence to take a deep breath and pause for a moment, visibly calming himself, and then continues, softer, “It’s fine. We’ll just get some water in you, maybe a cup of joe, have you sobered up in no time.”

He’s just starting to push himself out of his seat when Cas grasps the sleeve of his jacket urgently.

“Is this a date?” he asks harshly, almost desperate.

Completely stunned, Dean slides back into his seat like he’s not in full control of his limbs. A myriad of emotions plays across his face, most of them bookended by absolute astonishment.

“Why would you…” he trails off and minutely shakes his head, probably more at himself than Cas, as if he’s not happy with what he was about to say. “I don’t-” he starts again and stops, seemingly stumped. Cas can see the fright in his eyes; he’s starting to look a caged animal.    

“What do you want me to say to that?” he asks finally, and it sounds like a plea.

Cas feels himself swallow hard, feels his nerves tingling all the way up and down his extremities; he’s hyperaware of them. He has one hand caught in the other, laid on the table and pressed together, palm moving against palm nervously.

“I don’t know,” Cas mutters, losing steam and staring resolutely at his finicky hands. He didn’t mean to ask the question, but the beer has loosened his tongue and the word has been nagging at him all day and he’s still so angry at himself that he doesn’t _know_ these things, that this is uncharted territory for him and he’s just not sure about anything anymore, let alone what constitutes an actual date.

He stands up suddenly, and he sees Dean flinch.

“I’m going to use the facilities,” he says as neutrally as possible, and leaves before Dean can get a word in. This is definitely a textbook example of leaving with his tail tucked between his legs, and shame wells up inside him like fluid, filling every crack and crevice in his body.

He barely has the presence of mind to knock on the door to check if anyone’s inside before opening it, and when he realizes it’s empty he yanks it open gratefully and makes sure to lock it behind him. It’s only a one person bathroom, meaning it’s small and cramped, but all Cas really needs right now is a place where Dean isn’t, and he figures this is as good as it gets.

He grips the sink with both hands, trying to control his breathing.

It’s not just about the date thing.

He stares into the mirror above the sink, meets the eyes of his own reflection, and frantically thinks, _where’s Jimmy_? Before he remembers that of course, Jimmy died a long time ago, way back when Raphael descended upon Chuck’s house after he sent Dean to the convent to stop Sam. Jimmy has been gone years now, sent to heaven where he belongs, and now more than ever, this vessel isn’t a vessel anymore, but somehow manages to house the entirety of Castiel in one small being. 

Cas doesn’t understand. He doesn’t _understand_. He used to be eons, used to be able to feel the turn of the earth and passing of the ages like a human can feel themselves blink- it’s only noticeable if you focus on it; otherwise, it’s just a part of who you are.

Castiel was ancient and forever and a servant of god, and now he’s none of those things, and he doesn’t understand how that can be. How one can be something, and then in one fell swoop, lose it all. The angels were bred to love god the most, and Cas failed in that mission a long, long time ago. He’s died multiple times, so he cannot be forever. He’s only as ancient as his memory will allow, and with his increasing humanity, he finds his recollection of certain events become foggy and incomplete, because the human mind can’t cope with a memory that long.

The eyes staring back at him from the mirror aren’t his. Cas never looked like this. This was never him. Cas is as tall as the Chrysler building and has limbs existing across multiple dimensions. He has an impressive and awe inspiring wingspan and he doesn’t bleed red- in fact, he doesn’t bleed at all. He is enormous and terrifying and multi-headed and exists on a capacity completely out of human’s range of comprehension.

And yet when he opens his eyes again, he is a scruffy haired human in an old plaid shirt and jeans with holes in the knees, standing in a grimy, badly lit bathroom in a rundown bar in southwestern Utah. He brings his hand up to his cheek and feels the roughness of stubble. He needs to shave.  

He thinks about Wormwood, wonders if she’s reunited with the star she loves yet. Wonders if she’s enjoying feeling infinite again.

Cas’ back hurts.

There’s a hesitant knock at the door.

“Cas?” Dean asks, “Cas, you alright?”

Cas considers doing nothing. He considers just sitting on the dirty toilet lid for the rest of his human life, letting himself waste away. He considers going to Bryce Canyon tonight like there’s nothing wrong and jumping off the highest point he can find, just for those short moments where he’ll feel like he’s flying again. He considers bashing his head against the mirror until his face comes away bloody, but that thought only lingers a moment before dissipating into the night like exhaust fumes from a tail pipe.

“I’m fine,” he says, as he unlocks and opens the door. Dean stands on the other side of the threshold, unsure. “I’m fine, Dean,” Cas repeats.

Dean shakes his head sadly, the smile on his face only there to soften the blow.

“You’re not,” he tells Cas, “I’m sorry, Cas, but you’re not okay.”

“I’ve found,” Cas says wryly, feeling his own voice threaten to give him away, “That most people feel ‘not okay’ on a pretty regular basis. It seems to be the general human experience.”

Dean shakes his head again.

“And how does that make you any _more_ okay?” he asks. Before Cas can answer, Dean says, “It doesn’t, is the answer I was looking for.” He’s looking at Cas now, desperately unsure in his actions, but his voice determined. “But we- me and Sam, Charlie and Kevin too- we’re going to help you, okay?” he takes a step closer, just about bringing him over the threshold. “This isn’t about keeping you at home or out of the line of fire or whatever this time, I swear. We just want-” he pauses, licks his lips, “ _I_ just want you to be alright, alright?”  

Cas’ mouth is dry, but he thinks he nods. Everything is distorting around him, but he doesn’t think it’s the alcohol this time. It’s just _Dean_ overshadowing everything else.

“Alright,” he says quietly, and Dean huffs laughter and says, “c’mere,” and is wrapping Cas up in his arms, and he’s warm and comfortable and Cas has no trouble reciprocating this time, hugging Dean in return. He hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder and tries to just focus on the intimacy of the hug, of the camaraderie of having someone else’s arms wrapped around him. He finds himself tucking his face into the nook between Dean’s neck and shoulder, and doesn’t quite mean to press his lips to the skin there but it seems to happen anyway.

They stand there like that for a moment, saying nothing and breathing in tandem. Cas can feel Dean’s heart beating as well, and he knows it’s biologically impossible but their hearts are beating at the same rate and it’s almost like they’re reaching out for the other, like being this close isn’t enough.

Dean squeezes him tighter before fully letting go, and Cas immediately laments the loss of the heat. They look at each other for a moment, and Dean is so soft and open right now it kind of feels like something in Cas’ chest cracks with fondness, and he pictures flowers growing in the fracture.

“How about we get out of here?” Dean asks, for a second looking like he’s going to grab Cas’ hand but then readjusting and putting an arm around him instead. “It’s about time we head back to the motel anyways.”

Cas nods, already feeling the alcohol ebbing out of his system. Emotional breakdowns, apparently, can really sober a person up.

***

They get back to the motel just after midnight, Sam already waiting outside. In the typically brotherly fashion, a couple hours apart has mended all superficially damaged fences, and Dean and Sam are back to their old selves as soon as he joins them in the car, sliding into the backseat.

“So there’s an eighty percent chance of thunderstorms in about an hour,” Sam informs them in lieu of greeting, handing two laminated cards up front to Dean and Cas, respectively. “Here are your overnight permits, completely legit, of course, although I can’t imagine there’ll be too many people around to check with this kind of weather.”

Indeed, since they’ve left the bar, Dean’s noticed a remarkable rise in humidity, feeling his palms sticking to the steering wheel and his shirt sticking to his skin. The sky is heavy, and Dean’s pretty sure the chance of a storm is closer to one hundred percent.

“I would say we wait another day,” Sam continues, “But it might be better like this, since we won’t have to deal with any other hikers or near as many park personnel.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Dean says as they peel out of the parking lot.

***

“Okay, so according to the ranger I talked to today,” Sam says, holding the map out in front of him, Dean and Cas crowded in on either side, “She said the lights have been seen around this area here.” He marks the spot with an X. “Naturally, they’re in one of the alcoves at the bottom of the amphitheatre, so it’ll be a bit of a hike to get down there.”

“In the pitch dark,” Dean adds on, “With a thunderstorm brewing.”

“Exactly,” Sam says, either missing or choosing to ignore Dean’s sarcasm. “Now, we _are_ going to have to be careful, because there have been black bear sightings in the park, along with rattlesnakes and other things we probably don’t want to piss off.  Just in case-” he digs around in his bag, “I have a snake bite kit.”

“Do you have a bear death kit as well?” Dean asks, and Sam glares at him.

“Let’s just hope the animals will be too preoccupied with the storm to bother with us,” Sam says, folding up the map and sliding it into his back pocket. “But just in case, watch where you step.”

***

They’ve been on the trail for about half an hour when the lightning starts. It arcs across the sky and Dean catches Cas looking up more often than not.

“Cas!” he has to shout over the rumble of thunder, “Eyes on the road.”

He knows that Cas is looking for his friend up there, but Dean would really rather him not step on a rattlesnake because he’s too busy being distracted.

Dean drifts over to where Sam is practically pouring over the map.

“Have we ever actually discussed why there would be a cult of fallen angels in the middle of a national park?” Dean asks, able to speak at the normal volume again now that the thunder has momentarily stopped.

Sam shrugs.

“There have been all kinds of cults that operate out in the desert,” he supplies. “I can’t imagine the angels would care too much about the comforts of home, y’know? They’d just want a place to hole up.”

Dean snorts.

“Yeah, well, they’ve obviously never slept on a memory foam mattress.”

Sam’s looking over at Cas with worried eyes, and Dean follows his gaze.

“Everything okay with you and Cas?” Sam asks, a little too innocently.

“Hunky dory as always,” Dean supplies glibly, “But also he’s kind of completely emotionally unstable right now and we have to keep an eye on him. So I guess there’s that.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. So we just need to keep him away from high places for the time being.”

“We’re in the middle of a canyon, Dean.”

“Yeah, the _middle_. Let’s keep him away from the rim, got it?”

Sam casts another glance at Cas to make sure he’s out of earshot before saying, “You really think he’s suicidal?”

“I’m not sure,” Dean says, more seriously. “I just know we need to help him out.”

“It’s always one of us,” Sam mutters.

“What?”

He sighs heavily and Dean can already feel the hesitance in his words.

“It’s just- you have this _thing_ , Dean.”

“I don’t have a _thing_ , you have a _thing_ and you call it a haircut.” Dean snaps, automatically defensive.

“Dean. I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

Sam rolls his eyes in annoyance.

“Okay,” he says, refusing to be interrupted again, “you have this thing. This thing where if you’ve got something going on yourself that you refuse to talk to anybody about, you kind of go into overdrive caring for other people.”

“You think I’m _faking_ this thing with Cas?” Dean asks, genuinely offended. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“No, Dean, that’s not what I’m saying. Just listen to me, okay?” Sam puts his hands up, placating, trying to prove to Dean that he’s really not looking for a fight. Dean continues to bristle, but tries to tamp it down at least a bit. “It was like a couple years ago, after we lost Cas to the leviathans and Bobby dying- you were in a pretty bad place, man. The drinking, the nightmares. And it was like you completely ignored all of that just to keep asking me if _I_ was okay instead of-”

“You had a broken wall, Sam. You were seeing the _devil_. Obviously I’m not just going to ignore your problems.”

“No, see? That’s what this whole thing is about,” Sam says emphatically. “You ignore your problems in favor of other people’s, because then you don’t have to deal with your own. It’s avoidance.”

“ _Really_.” Dean says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “Then, pray tell, Sam, what trauma am I supposedly avoiding right now? Hugging your dumbass too often?”

Sam shrugs.

“Since I’m not you, I can’t know for sure, Dean. But it’s not like you don’t have the pick of the crop, here. You _did_ go to hell, you know.”

“Yeah, I recall.”

“You also spent a year in Purgatory, and Cas stayed behind at the last second and then you had to kill the guy who got you out in the first place.”

“And you didn’t look for me.”

“And I didn’t look for you,” Sam allows. “But I was dealing with my _own_ trauma, Dean, can’t you see that?”

Dean’s attempt at a response is drowned out by another clap of thunder, and he just shuts his mouth and stalks ahead.

***

The park ranger’s name had been Nelly. She was cute, blond, petite.

Sam had only talked to her for a couple minutes, long enough to get the info and thank her politely and be on his way- but not before she had written her number on his palm with a wink. He had smiled back at her, and pretended, for a moment, like he would actually call Cute Nelly from Bryce Canyon.  

Instead, he’s currently descending into the mouth of an amphitheatre at two in the morning with faked permits and intermittent thunder storms rolling through the sky and a pissed brother ahead of him and a seriously not okay kind-of-brother off to the side somewhere who won’t stop staring at the stars. (Which aren’t even out tonight, by the way, because the cloud cover is too thick.) Not that Sam doesn’t love Dean and Cas a lot, and not that he doesn’t want to help find Ariel and figure out whatever the hell might be going on with this cult- it’s just that this isn’t _him_ anymore.

Sam goes back and forth like a furious game of pinball on whether he was right to take off after the showdown at Roman Enterprises. He’s lost hours and hours of sleep over the guilt, and then the lack of.

But if there’s anything he’s learned since then, since his months with Amelia, it’s that he _needs_ the time to figure himself out. Dean, judging by the conversation they’ve just had, hasn’t seen it yet, hasn’t realized that the best thing either of them could do for themselves right now is to say ‘fuck you’ to literally every supernatural thing going on right now and move to Barbados and open a surf shop. Sam’s not sure if Dean’s ever going to quite have the sense of self to do anything other than hunting, but he hopes more than anything he’s wrong.

The problem Sam has with himself is that he doesn’t know himself. It was spelled out pretty clearly for him thanks to Marrane, and he knows it now, that he has to reconcile every part of himself to ever really feel like _himself_ again. 

He’s been Sam Up and Sam Down and Sam Adjacent, but he’s never been just _Sam_ , and he’s determined to figure out who that person is, whether he has to endure Dean’s teasing about him ‘finding himself’ or Cas’ earnest offers of help.

All he knows right now, is that he is not the kind of person who climbs down into amphitheatres at two in the morning with faked permits and intermittent thunder storms rolling through the sky. In fact, he’s pretty sure he was never that kind of person at all.

***

The thunder continues to rumble ominously as they descend into the canyon, and Sam warns them a couple of times about getting lightheaded due to the altitude change. He tosses them both water bottles and orders them to drink.

“Okay, mom,” Dean grumbles, still sore over their earlier dispute. He tries to be begrudging in a professional way, since they are still on a case, but he catches Sam’s eye roll regardless.

He moves over to Cas, more of a sounding board than anything else at the moment since he’s so busy being preoccupied, but Dean doesn’t really need a conversation now.

“Is it just me or does place just make you feel really… orange?” he asks. “I mean, don’t get me wrong the whole southwest is kind of orange, but this is just like… a lot of orange.”

“Is orange an emotion I’m supposed to be familiar with?” Cas asks distractedly.

“Sarcasm obviously is,” Dean retorts, screwing the cap back onto his water. “But, no, not really. Also, if you keep staring at the sky like that you’re going to face plant halfway down the trail.”

“I won’t.” Cas assures him.

“You will,” Dean says, and then adds, “The cloud cover is too heavy tonight, man. You’re not going to see her.”

“I know,” Cas says. “It’s absurd of me to keep checking.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Dean says, suddenly backpedaling. The last thing he wants to do is dishearten the guy, especially after what happened at the bar. “Just maybe focus on your feet for now, and try again another night.”

“What am I supposed to focus on instead?” Cas asks, and the first, automatic answer Dean comes up with is very quickly stuffed back down his throat.

“Making sure you don’t step on a sleeping snake or a bear paw,” he says instead. “In fact, you should probably focus really hard on that.”

_Don't step on that fish, Castiel._

Cas huffs bitter laughter, because it just feels more adequate than any silent acknowledgement. He learnt it from Dean, he thinks.

"What?" Dean slides his gaze towards Cas again, as if he'll find the answer written on the bridge of his nose.

"You remind me of someone," he says, and tastes acid in the back of his throat. He laughs again.

_Big plans for that fish_.

"Someone... Not good, I assume?" Dean's treading carefully.

"It's nothing." Cas shakes his head, and thunder rumbles, as if calling him out on the lie. It doesn't matter.

"One of the angels?" Dean asks, and Cas hears eggshells crunch beneath feet.

"I don't even remember who it was," he says, his neutrality a hilarious facade. At least that part is the truth.

He doubts he's going to step on any fish at the bottom of a canyon.

***

They make it to the bottom of the amphitheatre eventually, leaving them with only the first part of their task done. Now that they’re down here, they start to keep an eye out for the light- some witnesses said it was blue, others orange, like the light from a fire. Cas isn’t sure where the blue would come from, since his fallen brothers and sisters aren’t exactly oozing grace at the moment, and just thinking about it leaves him with a pit in his stomach. 

They spread out, close enough to be in hearing distance, but far enough to cover a good amount of ground fairly quickly.

The humidity is pressing heavily down on Castiel, and he can feel sweat prickling on the insides of his elbows and the creases behind his knees. The thunder is rumbling constantly now, a deep vibrato that’s only building in intensity. The weather forecast isn’t calling for rain tonight, and it makes Cas nervous, coiled tight. It feels like the atmosphere is unable to release, and it’s amazing how much more frightening that is when one is in what basically amounts to the bottom of a natural mixing bowl.

All three of them have flashlights swinging around to keep an eye on their feet, their beams another way to keep track of each other in the dark. Not that anyone’s _really_ afraid of getting attacked by a bear, but more likely expecting to run into a park ranger, a fallen angel, or the mysterious Adler. Besides, the color of the rocks is bright enough that some of them, oddly enough, seem to light their way regardless, like they retain sunlight, or hold their own inner luminescence.

Despite Dean’s repeated warnings, Cas can’t help but keep checking on the sky every once in a while. At one point, a cloud shifted and he caught a glimpse of a star and almost gasped out loud. He knows, theoretically, that he won’t be able to distinguish Wormwood from the rest, and he sometimes has to forcibly remind himself that she’s not actually a star.

He sticks his flashlight under his armpit for a moment so he can take another swig of water, and as he does so he thinks back to the glass of water still sitting in the bunker with a firmly worded _do not touch_ letter attached. He was wary to pour it down the drain just yet, knows it may take up to a couple of weeks for Wormwood’s effect to wear off completely.

He’s still not sure what it means that he could drink from her glass and not suffer any consequences. It only furthers his suspicion that he’s not a human by default, just because his grace was taken from him. He may have a human body, and he may think like a human, but he’s still not sure he _is_ one. Any human would have died drinking that water. He didn’t.

His musings are interrupted however, when he notices Dean’s beam of light whipping frenetically back and forth through the amphitheatre- they had decided on that as their non-verbal signal to get everyone’s attention.

He’s closer than Sam, and jogs to Dean’s side.

“Did you find it?” he asks, and Dean points.

“There,” he mutters, and Cas follows his finger.

About a hundred yards away, nestled into the side of the rockface, is what looks like a tiny little nook, but which Cas assumes eventually widens out into a larger cave. Reflected on the mouth of the cave is the shadow of what looks like a flame, and a weak, orange light.

The quiet scuffle of pebbles under foot announces Sam’s arrival, and he follows Dean and Cas’ gazes without question.

“And we’re sure it’s not just some schmucks camping?” Dean asks, looking to Cas.

He needn’t have asked, though, because just as he finishes the question, a flash of white-blue interrupts the orange, and Cas still knows without question what his siblings’ grace looks like.

“That’s it,” Cas confirms, and immediately strides forward. The flashes of blue continue, bright and intermittent. The pit in Cas’ stomach grows heavier. “Watch yourself,” he orders, feeling his tone immediately change to one of command- old habits die hard, apparently, “It’s not strong enough to hurt your eyes just yet, but as we get closer it’ll get worse.”

A hand reaches out to grab his sleeve and yank him to a stop.

“Whoa whoa,” Dean says, as another white-blue flash appears. “So it’s not going to affect you, then?” he scoffs, “Dude, hate to break it to you, but you’re still human. It’ll hurt you, too.”

Another flash. Cas feels it like a punch to the gut.

“I’ll be fine,” he says shortly, suddenly, unbelievably stressed. Something is wrong. Something is happening in that cave, and it’s probably because Adler knows they’re arriving.

“Hey,” Dean reaches out a hand to clamp on his shoulder, but Cas shrugs it off. “ _Hey_ ,” Dean repeats, moving in front of Cas so his back is turned to the light. “We have no idea what we’re walking into. We’ve gotta-”

Cas shoves him out of the way.

“Perhaps think to bring a leash, next time,” he hisses, and with another flash of grace on the rock, he takes off, sprinting for the cave.

***

“Cas!” Dean yells, feeling panic bubble up inside of him like water that’s been left to boil too long. “You stupid son of a bitch!” He starts to run after Cas, but Sam grabs him, pulling him back. The thunder is growing louder and more insistent, making his shout feel as useless as dandelion seeds caught in the wind.

“You can’t,” Sam snaps, having to speak up because of the noise, “Your eyes are going to boil out of your head if you get too close.”

“So will his!” Dean feels his voice crack, can hear how hysterical he sounds. The electricity in the air is palpable, and it only adds to his agitation. “Why the fuck would he even-”

“You can’t just dictate what he does because you think you know best,” Sam informs him, his words heavy and probably fifty shades of pointed. “You’ve gotta _trust_ him, Dean.”

“He’s running to his death and you want me to trust him?” Dean blanches. “You think _now_ is a good time to lecture me on this shit?!”

“They’re his family,” Sam protests, “He’s got to do-”

“He’s _our_ family,” Dean says lowly, words lost in an aggressive clap of thunder before he’s taking off after Cas.

Sam curses under his breath and follows him.

***

Cas slows down an infinitesimal amount once he reaches the mouth of the cave. His eyes are watering, and he can feel them becoming itchy and tight. He’s not going to lose his sight, however. He doesn’t know how he knows- he just does. He thinks of Wormwood’s water, of her poison currently running through his veins.

The cave is dead silent when he enters, and he has to hurry though a fairly long narrow portion, hands scrabbling along dry, dusty rock, breaths shallow. The bursts of vibrant light continue, and every time, Cas’ stomach lurches.

When he finally enters into the widened chamber area, the scene in front of him makes his throat close up and he stops dead at the head of it all.

“No,” he murmurs, completely in shock. “Oh, no.” There’s a fire in the center of the room, the original source of the light they saw outside.

Eleven bursts of grace.

In front of him, eleven angels lay dead.

A twelfth sits behind the fire, almost completely hidden by the flame. She looks up at Cas.

***

Dean is shouting for Cas, and Sam is shouting for Dean to _slow the fuck down_ , but Dean’s brain is in crisis mode, and when Dean’s brain is in crisis mode, there’s no room to focus on anything else.

He tears through the narrow path of the cave, hands getting scraped up on the rough rock and feeling the vibration of the thunder through the tunnel, being forcibly reminded of the time he and Cas spent in Maine and tried to force some info out of Raphael.

His cries are drowned out by the thunder, he knows, but it’s just instinct by now. Years of yelling after Sam can attest to that.

Finally, he stumbles into the area where the cave widens out, and stops short at the sight in front of him.

Despite his fear and initial impulsive decision, the first thing Dean’s brain does is catalogue what’s in front of him. A fire in the center, lifeless bodies (angels, most likely) with black smudges extending from their shoulders, and, thankfully, Cas, who’s currently leading the only other live person in this cave off to the side, away from the corpses.

Sam barrels into the opening just seconds after Dean, almost running into him in the process.

“Oh my god,” he says as he fully takes in the scene.

“They’re all dead.” Cas informs them flatly, “Except,” he nods his head at the girl his arms are currently around. He gently helps her sit down on the floor, wall at her back to hold her up.

“Uh, Cas,” Sam says cautiously, his tone an obvious warning to be careful. Generally, if they find one person standing at the site of almost a dozen murders, that person is at the very very top of their list of suspects.

“I’ve got it, Sam,” Cas says harshly over his shoulder. He turns back to the woman, who, despite the dirt and grime, is exceptionally beautiful. The first comparison that springs to Dean’s mind is that she looks like a lion, hair sandy and absolutely wild, small, brittle sticks caught in it. Her eyes are an intense shade of auburn, which Dean didn’t even think was possible, her skin tawny and immensely freckled. Frankly, she’s majestic, and Dean’s ashamed to think it in the current situation, but he’s never seen anyone who looks quite like her. She must be in her thirties, at the least.

“What’s your name?” Cas asks gently, his stoic persona of just a moment ago melting away like ice cubes in the summer sun. He’s positioned his body so that the woman (angel?) can’t see the others, and Sam and Dean look on nervously. Dean fingers the blade in his waistband discretely.

The woman doesn’t answer immediately, her eyes wide and terrified. She’s shaking minutely.

“Cas,” Dean says quietly, trying not to start another spat, “I think she’s in shock.”

Cas doesn’t turn around, but Dean can practically feel his gaze intensify. He slowly reaches out to place a comforting hand on her arm, but she flinches nonetheless.

“It’s going to be okay,” Cas says sincerely, “There’s no one here to hurt you anymore. We’re only here to help.”

An exceptionally loud clap of thunder makes the woman jump, and Cas immediately takes his hand off her.

“It’s just thunder,” he assures her, “It has nothing to do with this, I promise.”

The woman brings her hands to her mouth and starts to bite her nails. She gives Sam and Dean cursory glances; for the most part, she only has eyes for Cas. Dean sees her open her mouth, but he can’t hear her say anything.

Cas leans incrementally closer.

“What was that?” he asks softly, “Can I ask you to speak louder?”

She leans towards him as well, and whispers again into his ear.

Cas pulls back at once, eyes wide.

“She said, ‘Adler’,” he says blankly, addressing Sam and Dean. “Is that your name?” he asks.

She shakes her head, eyes closed.

“Is that the name of the person who did this?” Cas prompts.

She nods, and Cas glances back knowingly at Sam and Dean, before returning his gaze to hers.

“And what’s your name?” he asks again.

Another rumble of thunder this time, but it’s more muffled, like the storm is finally fading.

“Ariel,” she says, this time loud enough for Sam and Dean to hear as well.

They all three exhale simultaneously.

***

They burn the bodies.

Cas stares at the black smudges on the floor, and Dean puts the fact that they’re apparently in another fight to the side for now, coming up behind him and resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything.

“They’re not wings anymore,” Cas says, indicating the smudges. “Their wings burned when they fell. This is so wrong,” he says quietly, leaning into Dean’s touch like he can’t help it.

Maybe he can’t.

“I should’ve let you go,” Dean says, and Cas looks over his shoulder at him. “I just- I freaked, man. I’m sorry.”

Cas shakes his head.

“Don’t blame yourself,” he tells Dean, “Adler knew we were coming. He tried to work fast, but-” his gazes hovers on Ariel on the other side of the fire, the flames reflected in her eyes, pools of shadow in the hollows of her cheeks, “Obviously not fast enough.”

Dean lets his hand slide off Cas, but steps forward to stand beside him.

“Why didn’t he take her with him?” Dean asks quietly, not wanting to be overheard.

Cas shrugs.

“Maybe he couldn’t.”

“But he could disappear from the cave with only one entrance,” Dean points out.

“He may not have had the means to bring her,” Cas says. “Teleportation and displacement are complicated subjects.”

Dean scoffs.

“Yeah, well, spare me the lecture. We just need to find whoever the hell this is, stat.”

“I don’t think Ariel is going to remember much,” Cas observes. “Her mind is trying to protect itself.”

“She must remember eventually,” Dean insists.

Cas turns fully to face Dean, eyes sad. The firelight licks half of his face, making him look equal parts dangerous and malleable.

“Your mind changed your memories of your last moments in purgatory,” he reminds Dean, sounding pained to have to do it. “It was only when I showed you what really happened that you remembered. Human memory is finicky like that.” He glances over at Ariel again. “She has no one to remind her, and frankly, that’s probably for the best. However, if she does remember, it will have to be of her own volition.”

Dean scrubs a hand over his face, trying to ignore the way that memory still chafes him raw, the way it scrapes his insides.

“I’m sorry about all this,” he says, indicating the fire and the eleven bodies currently burning.

“That won’t change anything,” Cas says solemnly, hands in his pockets, “But I think it makes me feel better regardless. Thank you.”

He’s failed again.

***

They bring the ashes back up to the rim with them, and Sam and Dean wait, leaning against the hood of the Impala as Cas and Ariel toss them into the open air above the canyon.

The ride back to Lebanon is exceptionally quiet.

***

They drop Ariel off at her front door in Lebanon, with Cas’ phone number scribbled on a napkin from one of the diners they stopped off at on the way home.

She’s calmed down, but still shaken. Sam offers for her to stay at the bunker for however long she needs, but she declines.

“You’re just a phone call away, right?” she asks, doing her best to smile, chin wobbling. She reaches out to lay her hand on the railing of her porch. “I missed this,” she says reverently. Her face falls as she casts her gaze to the sky. “I miss her, too,” she admits. “I’m glad she’s home, but I still-”

Cas nods in sympathy, and Dean can’t help but think that he knows the feeling- or, almost knew the feeling at least. He casts a furtive glace at Cas.

“We’ll fix this,” Cas promises, a quiet certainty in his voice. “You’ll get to see her again.”

Ariel nods, and Dean notices a couple more stray twigs fall out of her hair. The backseat of the Impala is probably going to be a nightmare.

“And if you need anything,” Sam continues, “Anything at all, you give us a call, okay?”

She nods again, hand on the doorknob.

“I know I said I don’t remember anything,” she says, “Adler must have done something to me before he took off. But I’ll try to remember.”

“We owe you one,” Dean says.

“Yeah, well, you know what that ‘one’ is,” she says, without malice, looking directly at Cas. He nods.

“Okay then,” Dean says, starting back towards the Impala, “Look after yourself, Ariel. Take care, okay?”

“You too,” she says to both Sam and Dean. Cas hangs back, Dean assumes to have a private word.

Sam’s phone vibrates as they’re getting into the car, and he makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat when he looks at it. Dean, who’s been watching Cas through the window, looks over at Sam.

“What?”

“Charlie’s coming back.”

“ _What_? Why?”

Sam hands Dean the phone.

“More books,” Sam says grimly. “And, uh, apparently she’s worried about Kevin.”

Dean reads the text, eyes wide.

“Kevin called her for _that_?” he says disbelievingly. “Shit, we gotta get home.”

With perfect timing, Cas slides into the backseat.

“Thank fuck,” Dean says, and peels out of there. “We’ve got a problem.”

***

They speed home, Dean practically going out of his mind the entire time, muttering various things about ‘what the little runt is thinking’ and ‘going to get himself killed’.

As soon as he has the front door open, Dean is yelling for Kevin, voice echoing in the immediate areas of the bunker. However, they don’t have to go far to find him.

Kevin is sitting in one of the leather armchairs in the corner of the library. Completely covered in blood. He doesn’t even look at the three of them until they’re standing directly in front of him.

“ _Kev_ ,” Sam says, snapping his fingers in front of his face. “Snap out of it. What the _hell_ did you do, man?”

Kevin blinks.

“I talked to Crowley,” he says, the word ‘talked’ sounding a lot more threatening than any act of talking should ever be. He meets Sam’s eyes.

“I know where my mom is.”


	9. Hotel California

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title taken from the eagles' song of the same name

“You were supposed to be connecting to Chuck, man,” Dean complains as Kevin stands at the sink in the laundry room, cleaning himself off. “We’ve talked about the Crowley thing.” Cas stands beside him, not saying anything.

“Actually, you talked _at_ me about the Crowley thing,” Kevin corrects. “‘Your mom is dead, Kevin,’” he quotes bitterly, “‘Crowley is lying to you, Kevin. We need him for leverage, Kevin.’” He laughs. “Bull fucking _shit_ , Dean. Crowley hasn’t done anything since you guys chained him up down there, let alone give you info. So I took matters into my own hands.” He glances down at his blood stained palms. “Literally.”

"You could have gotten yourself killed," Dean says, "we still have no idea what that snake is really capable of, even locked up like that."

"Are you kidding me? You guys are the poster children for 'you could have gotten yourself killed'. What, you're just pissed someone else is stealing the limelight?"

"Kevin-"

"No, Dean. Stop right there. I was right and you were wrong. Accept it." He throws a heap of blood stained paper towels into the trash. "I know that you're apparently willing to sacrifice other people to this fight, including my mom, but I'm not, okay? I'm not a killer, and I'm also not a killer by proxy." He swallows hard. "Channing dying was hard enough. But to know my mom has been out there and alive all this time? While we've been sitting on our asses in these comfy chairs reading books? While the answer to her whereabouts is practically under our noses?" His eyes are haunted now, hollow. "I'm never going to forgive myself for that."

Deans just about to say something- apologize, argue, refute, anything so that they don't sit here staring at each other for eternity, but he's saved by Sam entering the room.

"Crowley's in bad shape, but he should live," Sam announces, while Kevin rolls his eyes in the background and mutters _obviously_. "It's pretty messy down there," Sam says cautiously, looking at Kevin worriedly. "What the hell did you do to him?"

Kevin shrugs.

"Enough."

"You couldn't even look at the head Abaddon dropped off here a couple months ago, and yet you were able to get the _king of hell_ to spill where your mom is? Some of his greatest leverage? That would take some serious dedication."

"Yeah," Kevin says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I was trying to find my mom, guys. Of all people, I thought you would understand the lengths people will go to for family. Stupid decisions weren’t just patented by the Winchester family, you know."

"He has a point," Cas chips in, and Dean immediately feels betrayed.

"Dude," he appeals, but Cas merely shrugs.

"If Linda Tran is still alive, we owe it to both her and her son to reunite them."

Dean scrubs a hand over his chin in frustration.

"This isn’t about that," Dean says. "Obviously we're more than thrilled about your mom, okay?"

"Cool." Kevin says in a voice that brokers no arguments, reaching beneath the table and dragging out a packed duffel bag. He slams it down onto the table and looks around at all of them. "How far to Pleasure Beach, Connecticut?"

***

Years ago, before they found the bunker, they used to do strings of hunts. There was a particularly memorable stretch in ’06 when Dean and Sam were busy for about a month straight, bouncing around the Midwest from hunt to hunt, motel to motel, with literally no downtime in between. Not a single poltergeist, wendigo, or chupacabra in the area was spared.

Now, however, in his mid-thirties and knowing there’s an incredibly comfortable bed with his name on it waiting for him, Dean can’t get behind the idea as readily as he used to. He sometimes thinks about his dad, definitely on the north side of middle age, who somehow managed to live the transient life like it was the only life to live. He berates himself for it sometimes, for being weak and halfway to _domestic_ , but more often than not he finds himself trying to desperately stow away those thoughts like they’ll bite him if left out to fester for too long. His dad was a lot of things, but an expert on the comforts of living he was not. He would never tell anyone this, not in a million years, but sometimes he’s glad that he lost John’s leather jacket during his year at Lisa’s. It was a heavy thing to carry.

As it stands, though, it’s almost a day’s drive to Pleasure Beach, and Dean is wiped from the previous day’s adventures in Utah. About half an hour later, once coffee has been brewed and new bags have been packed, Dean exhaustedly drops the Impala’s keys into Sam’s surprised hand, and even offers the front seat to Kevin, since he’s pretty sure the kid would be better off not looking at his face for the next while. The adrenaline from Kevin tearing a strip off him has worn off by now, and he slumps in the backseat beside a stoic Cas as they head east. Normally he would cry sacrilege, but he’s just too tired, and this is more of a self-imposed exile than anything, so he tries to take it with as good a grace as possible.

Cas’ phone beeps on his side of the car, and he peers at it.

“Charlie just texted me,” he announces. “She’s meeting us in Connecticut. She says here that her vacation was-” he squints at the phone, as if he’s not sure he’s seeing the words correctly, “‘less of a vacation, more of a… vah-cah?” he says quizzically. He looks at Dean. “I don’t understand this,” he says.

“Vay-cay.” Dean explains, forearm thrown across his eyes. “Short for vacation. She’s saying she didn’t really get a chance to actually relax with Carson. Probably been too busy keeping an eye on the books.”

Silence follows his explanation, and Dean lifts his arm to see everyone staring at him; Cas in his typical, befuddled, isn’t-pop-culture-a-soft-drink stare; Sam with his eyebrows raised at him in the rear view mirror; even Kevin has turned around to gawk at him.

“That was weirdly ‘hip’ and ‘with it’,” Sam smirks at him.

Dean just puts his arm across his eyes again and silently flips the entire car off.

***

Sam and Kevin switch off driving about eight hours in, since they don’t want to stop unless absolutely necessary until they get to Pleasure Beach, and Sam can feel the tiredness settling in his bones as well.

It hadn’t taken long for Dean to fall asleep, head against the window and probably liable to wake up with a huge crick in his neck. As kids, they used to sleep in the car all the time. Sam’s just glad to see the muscle memory kicking in so swiftly. Every time he’d glanced in the rear view mirror at the backseat, he’d catch Cas staring at Dean in what was probably supposed to be a very private moment if the fondness in Cas’ gaze was anything to go by.

Once they switch off, Sam prepares to sleep for the next couple hours or so, but he can see Kevin looking like he’s psyching himself up to say something, so he tries to hold off for the time being.

They make it about twenty minutes until he finally sighs, his shoulders falling as if they’ve been stuck in a permanent shrug for the last couple years.

“This is how it is,” he says quietly, like he’s been thinking about it a long time. He says it low enough that Sam is the only one who can hear. “You guys are important, okay? You save the world a lot and you save people and you do a lot of good.” As he’s speaking, he keeps his eyes on the road. Sam thinks it’s one half nervous driver, one half he really doesn’t want to look at him right now. “I’m just a side character in your story. My mom even less so, I get it. I mean, hell, I’m not even in the Winchester gospels yet, and there have been a ridiculous amount of them published already.” His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “Your story is an important one.” He swallows. “But I think, sometimes, that you and Dean get caught up in it, and that you forget everyone is the main character in their own story. They may not be as world changing as yours, but they matter, okay?” He glances at Sam quickly, as if to make sure he’s not laughing or something. His eyes swiftly slide back to the road and he swallows hard. “I wanted to be the first Asian-American president, but I’m starting to realize that I may have been aiming a little too high,” he huffs laughter, though it sounds more forced than anything. “Realistically, I was probably going to become a lawyer- a pretty damn good one, at least- or an engineer or an architect or something. I would have designed a few buildings, maybe helped put a couple bad guys in jail. Never anything quite on your scale for sure.”

He lets the last statement hang in the air for a moment, and Sam isn’t sure if that’s the end of his speech or if he’s just deciding what to say next. When nothing else comes, he figures that was it. Not for the first time, he feels like crap when it comes to Kevin.

“You’re right,” Sam admits. “If we’re being honest, you’re usually right. We forget that a lot, but most importantly, we forget that you’re a kid.”

Kevin half smiles.

“Technically, I’ll be an adult in December.”

“Yeah,” Sam huffs laughter, “The big eighteen. You’re a kid.”

Kevin nods, allowing it, and the almost smile slowly slips off his face.

“I just wanna save my mom,” he says.

“We will,” Sam assures him.

Silence falls between them. They drive for another hour, and Sam still hasn’t fallen asleep.

“You know how important you are, right?” Sam eventually asks after chewing on it for a while. “And I don’t mean this to guilt you or anything. You just need to know that you’re a big player in this. Not only that, but you’re family, regardless of the other stuff. Also,” Sam can’t help but properly smile as he says, “It would be great to have a president who actually knows what’s out there for once.”

Kevin shakes his head, but Sam can see the corners of his mouth twitch.

“I’ll keep that in mind for my inauguration,” he promises, mock solemnly.

***

Dean wakes up about halfway to Pleasure Beach, but then somehow manages to fall asleep again for the last leg of the journey. He’s not sure how it happens, since he’s just started getting used to sleeping a proper eight hours almost every night in his own bed, and for a guy of his size, sleeping in a car is about as comfortable as having a brick hurled at your face.

He’s woken up in Connecticut by Cas gently shaking his shoulder, coming to with big blue eyes staring down at him.

“Ugh,” he groans, limbs stiff and unresponsive. He feels like he’s made of matchsticks, and blindly grabs for Cas’ shoulder to heave himself up. “Never let me sleep in the car again.” He fumbles for the door handle, hoping some fresh air will wake him up properly.

“We’re in Bridgeport,” Cas informs him, shifting on the leather seats to allow Dean more room to flop around until he regains his faculties. “Sam and Kevin have gone to procure some motel rooms for a couple hours, since they’ve decided we should all get some rest before tonight.” As Dean reaches up to his neck to massage the massive crick that’s formed there, Cas adds, “‘Proper rest’ was the term they used, I believe.”

“Fantastic,” Dean grouses, opening the door and practically falling out of the car. He sniffs. “Oh, man,” he wrinkles his nose, “We’re in Bridgeport. So much for fresh air.”

Cas comes around the side of the car, shutting Dean’s door for him.

“Are you alright?” He asks, offering a steady arm, helping heave Dean up.

Dean moves by him to pop the trunk, starting to pull everyone’s bags out.

“I’m great,” he says shortly. “Just peachy.”

“Dean,” Cas lays a hand on his shoulder, and Dean stiffens as he closes the trunk, turning around and leaning back against it, eyes on Cas. “This is about Kevin,” he states. “And his mother.”

Dean lets out a long breath, shaking his head.

“I’ve never felt like more of a dick,” he confesses. “I ignored him for months, telling him his mom was dead and telling him we needed Crowley- literally bullshit excuse after bullshit excuse.”

Cas’ hand slides down Dean’s arm a bit, coming to rest just above his elbow. Dean swallows.

“You’ve had a lot on your plate,” Cas says. He looks at Dean imploringly, “Despite our many- and continuous- disagreements, you need to understand that I’ll always back you up, Dean. Even if you’re only fighting with yourself.”

Dean’s still trying to come up with a response to that when Kevin and Sam come out of the motel a moment later. Sam tosses him a key and keeps one for himself.

“I’ll bunk with Kevin,” he says, “And we’ll meet out here at midnight?” He looks around at everyone, who nods. “Alright then, see you guys in a couple hours.” He nods at both Dean and Cas, and he and Kevin pick up their bags and head to their room.

Dean picks up his own bag and starts towards room eleven, Cas by his side.

***

Cas can’t sleep. They’ve shut the curtains and turned off the lights, and it’s fairly quiet outside, but Cas can’t sleep. He’s curled on his own bed, back turned to Dean across the room. He’s been staring at the slant of light that’s coming through the crack in the curtains for an hour now, and it’s not even six thirty.

With a frustrated sigh, he sits up and rests his head against the headboard. He didn’t sleep on the way here, so he’s not sure why he’s not tired.

There’s a slight thrumming under his skin, making it impossible for him to relax, and he can’t help but wonder if it’s because Dean is lying on the other bed.

It’s not like they haven’t shared a motel room before. In fact, they’ve even shared a bed whenever it’s been the three of them on a hunt. But they’ve never just had a room together. Cas doesn’t know why, but this feels significant somehow, as if something is supposed to happen.

“Cas?” Dean asks from across the room, and Cas looks over to see Dean laying on his side, staring at him. “You should be sleeping.”

“Sleep is eluding me at the moment,” Cas says mildly, “I assume you’re experiencing the same difficulties.”

Dean sits up, stretching and nodding.

“Yeah, well, I slept a whole lot on the way here. I ain’t exactly aching for some more shut eye.” He throws off the covers and plants his feet on the carpet, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m gettin’ twitchy just sitting here. I want to do something.”

“We still have about six hours until we need to meet Sam and Kevin,” Cas tells him.

“I know,” Dean says. “I’ll probably be spending it watching game show reruns. Doesn’t mean I won’t be going out of my mind every minute.”

Cas pushes the covers off as well, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

“I’m sure you could find something to do in town,” he offers, trying to ignore the way the atmosphere in the room seems to have thickened.

“I don’t wanna go anywhere just in case Kevin decides to head out early,” Dean says, sounding regretful but resolute.   

“I suppose that makes sense.”

They lapse into silence, Cas resting his head on his knees and Dean picking at a stray thread in the sheets. Their positions have the air of unvoiced conversation, and Cas isn’t sure what in particular he hasn’t said, but his tongue feels heavy with it, like it’s weighing down any other possible discussion topics.  

Cas watches Dean pluck at the bedspread, and he feels his own chest respond in kind. It’s so strange that the man sitting on the other bed is the one he pulled out of hell six years ago, and it’s even stranger that he’s still here to watch him do such inane things. He’s sitting here on this bed- not near as comfortable as his one at the bunker- and he can feel the give under him, can feel his arms wrapped around his denim clad knees and can feel his cheek smushed into his kneecap where he’s resting his head. He’s sitting here on an uncomfortable bed watching Dean pluck at an insignificant stray thread with his newly human eyes while they wait to commence an inevitably dangerous rescue mission, and the only real conclusion Cas can draw from this is that people have the incredibly awe-inspiring ability to adapt to new situations with astounding aplomb. He would never congratulate himself on this feat, of course, but he can most definitely thank Jimmy’s vessel and whatever leftover inherencies Cas has picked up since falling.

That’s the thing about angels, though. They’re not made to be changeable. They’re made stiff and unyielding; even in battlefield situations, there’s a similar calculation in every move, rarely the kind of innovation Cas has seen during his time on Earth. If he were to choose his favorite thing about being human, it would most likely be the newfound malleability- despite the accompanying existential dread and Cas’ continued assertions that he’s not _actually_ human, but potentially something in-between.

He had his flexibility as an angel, most definitely. But there’s a forced inherency of choice in being human (or close to) that he finds himself inexplicably drawn to; the ability to choose, be it an outfit for the day or the betting of money on a major sporting event, he finds the dizzying array of decisions both overwhelming and titillating. As a former angel, it offers a startling perspective into the world of free will, and as a now earthbound being, despite the non-importance it seems to be allotted by the majority of people, there’s a reluctant optimism he finds himself dabbling in nowadays, a kind of small joy in the hand he’s been dealt. It doesn’t dispel the depressions Cas still sometimes finds himself spiralling into, but at least it gives him something to hold onto when he feels like he’s detached from himself and everyone around him.

When he looks at Dean now, doing something as mundane as fooling with a poorly made bedspread, he sees _options_. Multiple avenues as to how to further pursue their friendship, whereas before, there would have been only one way made clear to him. It’s an amazing and terrifying feeling.

Dean, obviously feeling eyes on him, looks up to meet his gaze speculatively.

“Hey,” he says, “I know I’m starting to sound like a broken record, but how are you doing?”

Cas has answered this question to varying degrees of success since the end of May, often finding himself annoyed by its coddling overtones. In his current state of mind, however, he feels able to take a step back from it and see the big picture here. Mainly, that this phrase is one often exchanged between him and Dean, because it’s their catch-all. It’s their way of saying a million different things, neatly compressed into four words- sometimes a three word variation (“how you doing?” “how are you?”), if Dean is feeling particularly concise that day.  Aside from the occasional hand on shoulder, this is generally the only way they’re able to express their affection for each other.

On the end of that thought, Cas feels a ripple of disjointedness course through him, and his stomach shifts uncomfortably.

“I’m optimistic,” Cas says, unable to be anything but honest at the moment, “But sad.”

“Oh.” Concern settles into the crevices of Dean’s face, and Cas is pretty sure he hears an undercurrent of disappointment. “Optimistic about being sad or sad about being optimistic?”

“The first one, I think.”

“That’s… good?” Dean checks.

“Better than the second one, I’m sure.”

Dean stares hard at Cas for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. Then, apparently coming to a decision, he stands up and crosses the divide between beds, sitting just in front of Cas’ socked feet, one leg tucked up on the covers, the other dangling towards the floor. Cas’ entire body responds to his proximity, blood pumping faster and hairs standing on end.

“I know I suck at this stuff,” Dean says sincerely, “And I know I’ve said it before,” he shifts minutely closer, enough so that Cas’ toes are poking into his shin, “But seriously, I’m here, okay? For whatever you need, man.”

Cas nods, suddenly parched.

“I’d like to return the gesture,” he says. “Although I ‘suck at this stuff’ as well,” he says wryly.

Dean chuckles ruefully, but his voice is achingly genuine. “Maybe we could actually put this stuff to use if we stopped _offering_ to be here for each other and actually… _are_ here for each other, y’know? Like… now. Right now.” he puts a self-deprecating hand to the back of his neck, as if he’s embarrassed just to be suggesting something as ludicrous as _being there_ for each other. “We have time to kill, after all,” he mumbles, though he doesn’t bother glancing at the clock on the nightstand. Instead, his eyes are locked on Cas’, frightened but determined, and Cas is pretty sure that look sums up Dean Winchester more than any words ever could.

Cas has rarely applied the word ‘inevitable’ to any situation involving himself, but when he feels his eyes flicker from Dean’s eyes down to his lips, he’s suddenly not so sure.

“I think that would be a good plan of action,” Cas agrees hoarsely, and watches Dean lick his lips nervously and nod.

His words disappear into the room around them, and neither of them says anything to fill the void. Cas has no idea what to say, and judging by the way Dean seems to be struggling to form words, he’s having the same issue.

“Apparently being here for each other is easier said than done,” Cas observes dryly, and Dean laughs a little too readily, gaze finally dropping to his twiddling thumbs.

“Um,” he says, voice croaky. He coughs, clearing his throat. “Uh, there are other ways…” he trails off, his hands moving like they’re searching for something to hold onto, and suddenly a switch flicks in Cas, and he realizes, _oh_.

Being there for each other. Dean’s restless hands. His nervousness.

It kind of slots into place for Cas then, settles over his mind like an all-encompassing fog. He realizes what’s happening, and he realizes the culmination of all his actions over the past couple months- years, probably- has lead him to this moment. How strange, since he was just singing the praises of free will.

He’s staring at Dean, can’t bring himself to look away. Eventually, Dean raises his gaze to Cas’ again, and it’s a fragile thing, tenuous, both of them seemingly frozen in the act of mutual epiphany. Like he’s in a trance, Dean hesitantly reaches a hand out and cups Cas’ calf. They both watch in fascination as Dean slides his palm down the length of Cas’ leg, and Cas wonders if he’s supposed to feel the touch through denim like it’s burning him, like every nerve ending is on fire. He sucks in a breath as quietly as possible, afraid any sudden movement is going to shatter the moment.

“I-” Dean whispers, gaze flitting between his hand on Cas’ leg and his face, “I don’t-” he swallows hard, “I’m not sure-”

Cas has absolutely nothing to say to that, could never know what to say. Somehow, though, he manages to ground out a breathless, “It’s okay,” and Dean looks up at him so fast Cas thinks he hears Dean’s neck crack.

Dean moves his hand to lay his palm gingerly on Cas’ kneecap, thumb coaxing the denim back and forth. He’s staring at his hand like it has a mind of its own, and before Cas can react in any way, he leans forward, resting his forehead gently on Cas’ other knee. He takes a couple of deep, shuddering breaths, and Cas watches his back tremble for only a moment before resting his own palm there. Dean stiffens at first, and then goes pliant under him, breathing evening out; Cas can tell from the puffs of breath he feels on the one arm still wrapped around his knees.

They stay like that for a minute, like they’re in their own bubble universe, Cas’ hand, calming, on Dean’s back, and Dean’s forehead resting on Cas’ knee. Cas feels the fingers of Dean’s other hand softly wisping their way around his ankle, walking slowly up to where his own free hand lay.

The first touch of Dean’s fingers against his own is warm and calloused, tentative, like he’s knocking to come in.

Cas lets him.

Dean intertwines their fingers without a word, squeezing once, twice. He brings their joined hands up to his mouth, and Cas is preparing for the first brush of lips when—

Someone knocks on the door.

Dean rips himself from Cas and jumps off the bed like he’s been electrocuted, but not before Cas catches the wetness clinging to Dean’s eyelashes. Dean wipes furiously at his face with his sleeve, practically sprinting to the door to look through the peephole. When he sees who it is, he practically slams his head against the adjacent wall.

“It’s Charlie,” he says without turning around, his voice low and rough. “You good?”

Cas nods, before he realizes Dean can’t see him.

“Yes,” he says.

Dean nods as well.

“Okay,” he says, and opens the door.

***

Charlie has the strangest suspicion she’s just interrupted… something. Cas is sitting on the bed, Dean’s wrapping her in a hug, and all seems normal, but it’s like she can sense the tension in the room, something other than _air_ in the air.

“I didn’t interrupt, did I?” She asks as neutrally as possible, because this close, she can see that Dean’s eyes are red.

“What?” Dean says, his voice hollow, pulling away and taking a seat in the chair at the desk. Charlie doesn’t miss the loaded glance he throws Cas’ way. “Nah.”

“Okay then.” She doesn’t buy it, but lets the matter drop along with her bag onto Dean’s bed. “Sam texted me, by the way,” she adds, “Told me which motel. I assume he’s sleeping it off in the room he didn’t bother to tell me about.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, well, it’s not like either of us were sleeping.” As soon as he finishes the sentence, his face flushes like he realizes that it can be taken in more than one way, and he immediately backtracks. “We were just-”

“Discussing the case,” Charlie helps him out, and sees him visibly relax. “Not a surprise.” She looks over to Cas. “Hi, by the way.”

Cas nods and smiles.

“Hello, Charlie. How was your time with Carson?”

“I’m honestly surprised the world didn’t implode when the two of us started up with the computer stuff,” she says wistfully, “It was pretty intense.”

“I’m still not sure why you’d ever use the computer more than you have to,” Dean says, sounding like a (pardon her French) outright dinosaur.

“Tell that to your stash of porn sites,” Charlie immediately fires back, and Dean just grumbles in response.

“As much as I missed this playful banter,” Charlie continues, digging around in her bag, “I’ve found something that we should really talk about.” She pulls a Supernatural book out of her bag, and Dean catches a flash of the title: Exile on Main St. “Honestly, the majority of my ‘vacation’ was reading these books and reading up on them.” She looks at Dean carefully. “I know this is supposed to be Sam’s thing, but I would say this is important enough that everyone should know.”

“It’s fine,” Dean assures her. “Just get to the good stuff.”

“Okay then.” She looks between them. “Just humor me, okay?”

“Okay…” Dean says cautiously.

“What year is it?”

“ _What_?”

Charlie rolls her eyes. “This is where the _humor me_ part comes in. What year is it?”

Dean sighs. “It’s 2013.”

“Good. Now, what year did you go and pick up Sam from Stanford?”

“2005.”

Charlie grabs a piece of the hotel stationary and a pen, and starts writing things down.

“Okay, so according to the dates you just gave me, it’s been about eight years since the beginning of the book series, right? Since Stanford, saving people hunting things, etc.”

Dean spreads his hands and looks to Cas like he’s expecting him to say something to refute it. Cas just stares back at him, unhelpful.

“Sure,” Dean allows.

Charlie starts furiously writing things down on the small pad.

“And you spent a year at Lisa’s, right?”

“A little over a year, yeah.”

“And a year in Purgatory?”

“I guess, yeah.”

She keeps writing, forehead creasing.

“This really isn’t good,” she says, staring hard at whatever calculations she’s made.

“ _What_ isn’t good?” Dean asks, frustrated.

Charlie doesn’t answer, continues writing things down, but from the bed, Cas says, “ _oh_ ,” like he’s just realized what Charlie’s getting at.

“Oh my god not you too,” Dean says.

“No, she’s right, Dean,” Cas says, voice growing heavy with dawning dread. “This is a problem.”

“Can someone please just tell me what the _fuck_ is going on then?” Dean asks, seemingly more annoyed that he’s been left out of the realization as opposed to the real reason he should be freaking out.

“Dean,” Cas says, “According to these books- and, subsequently, your life- with the way the timeline has been structured, the current date should be September 2015.”

Dean stares at Cas, this time looking to Charlie for help.

“You realize that makes absolutely _no_ sense, right?” He double checks. They both just stare at him sadly.

“That’s the point,” Charlie says, gesturing to Swan Song again. “Nothing about this makes any sense.”

“No, but… This is our _life_ ,” Dean argues. “Despite the occasional trip in the DeLorean, time is just time. It can’t just _change_ like that.”

“I don’t think it’s time that’s changed,” Cas theorizes, “It’s your life that’s bent to accommodate it.”

“Oh, man,” Charlie breathes, putting a hand over her face. “This is wild. Completely not good, but totally wild.”

“Completely ridiculous, you mean,” Dean corrects. “I mean, _c’mon_ , really?”

Neither Charlie nor Cas say anything. They just look at Dean with pity in their eyes, like a really sad Wild West standoff.

“ _C’mon_ ,” Dean says again, but this time, it’s more him pleading than anything. “C’mon,” he repeats, like it’s some sort of joke and Ashton Kutcher is going to pop out of the bathroom and tell him he just got punk’d.

When no one tells him that, yes, indeed, this has all been one elaborate prank, he just shakes his head in resignation and digs around in his pocket, pulling out his phone.

“Fuck me,” he sighs, as he starts typing out a text to Sam.

***

Midnight comes, and when they all meet up outside, Kevin not so politely reminds them that they’re here to save his mother and not to discuss a series of books. Dean does his best to stow the most recent revelation in favor of what he considers a very important topic of conversation.

“How do we know that Crowley hasn’t just led us on another wild goose chase, or even more fun- and his style-, directly into a trap?” he asks, and really wishes he had voiced this concern before getting stuck on a twenty two hour drive to Connecticut.

“We know,” Is the only answer Kevin gives, and since that thing with Cas this afternoon and the discussion that happened directly afterwards, he’s worn pretty thin and not interested in cryptic answers anymore.

“How can you be sure?” Dean snaps. “This is _Crowley_ we’re talking about. I’m not having anyone walk into an ambush or whatever else he might have planned for us.”

“Dean,” Sam says, a warning to back off. He looks to Kevin, “Whatever we’re walking into, we’ll be prepared.” He looks back to Dean, one eyebrow raised. “Right?”

Dean turns away from them, annoyed. He knows he’s coming off like a douche, he’s not fucking blind. He knows Kevin is beyond pissed with him for so many reasons. But he also knows that the four people standing in this parking lot with him are the only people he has left, and if he loses them because he decided _Crowley_ could be trusted? There’s a lot of things he would never forgive himself for, but he thinks getting everyone he cares about killed in one fell swoop would take the top spot, and there’s a lot of hot contenders.

A hand gently cups his elbow and walks him a ways away from the small group huddled around the Impala.

“Dean,” Cas says lowly, so different from the way Sam said it. “You can’t keep doing this.”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, squeezing his eyes shut like he has an awful headache.

“I’m a broken record that sounds like a broken record, I _know_ ,” Dean says stiffly. And maybe it’s still the rawness from this afternoon boiling over, but it all just comes pouring out, “I’m a fucking coward Cas, okay? I’m a coward and I’m selfish. I don’t want anyone else to die.”

“I know,” Cas says earnestly. “Trust me, Dean, I know.” His hand squeezes Dean’s arm in solidarity. “I don’t want anyone to die either, you know. No one wants anyone to die.”

 It’s weird, but it’s Cas’ last statement that makes Dean’s face crumple, that causes him to suck in a heaving breath and make his shoulders quake. Of course no one wants anyone to die. Why does he feel like that doesn’t matter?

“Oh my god, Cas,” Dean says, and he knows there’s no record this time; he just sounds broken. “I think my brain is fucked up real bad. I don’t know why I’m the only one like this I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Cas takes a step closer so that their shoulders are brushing, and his hand moves from Dean’s elbow to circle around the inside of his forearm, touch smooth and calming.

“There’s never anything I could say that would make you stop worrying,” Cas says honestly, angling his body towards Dean’s so that all Dean can see is his dark, sincere gaze. “You’re scared, but you need to understand that their lives-” he inclines his head in the direction that Kevin, Charlie, and Sam are standing, “-don’t belong to you. Ultimately, they may choose to do whatever they like with their own lives.” His thumb is rubbing comforting circles into the flesh of Dean’s forearm, and he has no idea how Cas knows how to do that. “Just like you have the ability to do whatever _you_ wish with your own life,” he encourages.

Dean shakes his head ruefully.

“Honestly, I don’t even know what that means,” he says, referring to Cas’ last sentence.

“You’ll figure it out,” Cas says surely, “Besides, if it makes you feel better, I fell three and a half months ago and still manage to burn the coffee every morning.”

Dean snorts. “You never make the coffee.”

“But I’ll _figure it out_ ,” Cas repeats, glint in his eye. After a moment, he shrugs. “Or maybe I won’t. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure you’ll still be there to complain about it on the rare occasion I actually do make it.” At Dean’s bemused glance, Cas sighs and says, intonation clear this time, “The point I’m trying to make, Dean, is that I’ll still be around no matter what. You said it yourself this afternoon, _being there_ for each other, right?” His voice trips on the last couple words, but Dean can’t help but feel his face grow hot at having his own words quoted back at him.

“I don’t know if this is a thing that can be fixed, Cas,” he shrugs helplessly, “It’s just who I am. It’s how I was raised.”

Cas closes the distance between them further, an almost frightening intensity passing across his face barely slow enough for Dean to catch. When he speaks now, there’s an echo of the celestial being who used to shatter glass and erupt eardrums just by trying to say _hello_.

“You were destined from the _beginning of time_ to be the Archangel Michael’s vessel,” he begins, voice rumbling, and Dean swears he can feel the vibrations reverberate throughout his whole body, “You’re descended from Cain and Abel. An entire apocalypse was scheduled around yours and your brother’s births. Fate is a force older than you could ever conceive, a terrifying consequence of the world we live in, and yet _you_ , Dean Winchester, to all of it, said ‘screw that’.” He takes another step, and they’re practically nose to nose now. He can’t help but wonder what the hell Sam and company must be thinking. Never let it be said Cas doesn’t know how to make a scene, no matter how inconspicuous. “You have no idea what you’re capable of, Dean,” he finishes, the electricity vanishing from his eyes and the feeling of impending thunderstorms receding. “Please don’t sell yourself short. Not to me.”

He takes a full step back, untangling his arm from Dean’s.

“We should go now,” he says, “I believe we have a family member to rescue.”

***   

They drive for a couple minutes out of Bridgeport, but have to walk the rest of the way to Pleasure Beach, meaning all they can take is what they can carry. According to Kevin, Crowley only knows the location of the building, not the security measures taken to protect it.

“He said you guys captured him before he could give explicit instructions. Apparently, Crowley’s regime practices delegation. Who knew.”

“Just bring a crapload of holy water,” is the only thing Dean had allowed himself to grumble.

Pleasure Beach itself is, naturally, incredibly creepy. Abandoned in the late nineties due to a fire occurring on the bridge that connected it to the mainland, everyone was forced to evacuate, leaving the place desolate for about fifteen years now, minus the occasional bout of arson and vandalism.

“I guess it’s secluded enough,” Dean concludes as they walk through the remains of ruined buildings, “But not exactly secure in terms of structure.”

“That’s probably why there’s going to be a crapload of guards,” Charlie adds helpfully.

“Yeah, speaking of,” Dean says, holding out on arm to stop Kevin from walking. He looks at him with one eyebrow raised, expression serious. “Alright, short stop, I know I’ve been hard on you basically since we met you, and I was- and am- a dick, okay?”

“Is this you apologizing?” Kevin asks, “Because it sucks.”

“No, this is me telling you that when we go in there, you _hang back_ , got it? These demons aren’t going to be tied in a pretty little package for you like Crowley was.” He sends a look Charlie’s way, _you stick with him_ , and she nods.

Hey, Kevin was the one who called her asking for info on Crowley, and she somehow managed to drop the ball spectacularly on that. Least she can do is keep the kid alive long enough to save his mom.

Once they start moving again, Charlie hangs back with Kevin, not only because she’s supposed to keep an eye on him, but because she’s genuinely curious.

“Why’d you ask me?” she asks, quiet enough that Dean, Sam, and Cas up ahead can’t hear.

Kevin snorts. “Why do you think?” he replies bitterly, “No one else would have helped me.”

“Yeah, but _I_ didn’t help you either.”

“I’m aware of that,” Kevin says snappishly, obviously still feeling pretty betrayed.

Charlie _tsk_ s and shakes her head.

“Look,” she says, “I was never great with the whole teenage angst thing, but you need to understand we’re not _ganging up_ on you, Kev. We’re just looking out for you.”

“You really think this is about some crappy teenage angst?” he practically spits. “I’ve been treated like crap by the Winchesters for months upon months, and you chalk it up to _angst_?”

“Hey, I’m not defending them,” Charlie immediately corrects his assumptions. “I love ‘em, but I know they haven’t been fair to you, dude. Trust me, I’m lucky that I just got my arm broken trying to help them. You’re stuck in this thing way more than I am.”

“Wow I feel so much better now. Thanks, Charlie.”

“Shut up. All I’m saying is that you have every right to be bitter, but you also gotta know they care about you a lot.”

“And that justifies it?”

“I never said that,” Charlie says reasonably. “You have to decide that for yourself.”

“Well I can’t say I’m feeling particularly forgiving at the- wait.” He stops, staring at the building across the road from them. It’s an old abandoned movie theater, roof half caved in and looking incredibly decrepit.

“This is it,” he says. “This is where my mom is.”

***

In the end, they decide to split up and enter via separate doors, which is an idea that everybody immediately hates. Sam grimly points out that if Crowley’s goons get the jump on all five of them coming through the same entrance, it’ll be almost impossible to backtrack, and there’ll be absolutely no back up. At least if they enter from opposite sides, there should always be someone to flank any opponents and get the advantage.

Sam takes Charlie and Kevin around the opposite side of the theater so they can enter the back way, while Dean and Cas slip in a side door.

“Stay between me and Charlie,” Sam orders Kevin as he attempts to pick the lock on the back door. “Charlie, make sure Kevin stays between me and you.”

“Also,” Sam continues as he starts to apply torque, “We’ve got to be smart about this-”

“-Then we wouldn’t have split up-” Kevin interrupts.

“So if you see your mom in there, let one of us know, is what I was going to say, actually,” Sam says pointedly. “Just because there’s no one around her doesn’t mean she isn’t guarded in some way.”

“What, like spells or something?” Charlie asks.

Sam shrugs. “Maybe.”

Charlie and Kevin huddle nearby in the dark as Sam continues to work on the lock. Someone who has broken in here before must have applied enough force to warp the lock, because he can’t quite get the angle he needs to pop it.

“Charlie, I need some more light over-” His voice is interrupted by a gunshot from inside, and despite the years, it doesn’t change the way his heart jumps into his throat.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, standing up and fumbling in his waistband for his gun, “So much for the element of surprise. Back up,” he orders Charlie and Kevin, and shoots out the lock.

***

They must have tripped some sort of security system, but Cas has no idea what it was. They had entered through the door at the base of one of the screening rooms, and it had taken all of thirty seconds for them to get surrounded by three demons. Cas silently thanks Sam for suggestion everyone split up.

“Would you believe me if I said we had Crowley’s permission to be here?” Dean asks as he and Cas stand back to back, trying to cover as much space as possible between the two of them.

Demons, not inherently creatures of belief, don’t buy Dean’s story. Two of the three are leering at them with crookedly evil grins, while Cas is pretty sure the third one is just as scared as they are. 

They all move forward at the same time, and Cas’ heart hammers away in his chest as he feels Dean step away from him to enter into the fray. Sam is the one with Ruby’s knife, leaving them with nothing but holy water and bullets.

It doesn’t stop Dean from firing off a shot at one of the demons, probably to take out one of his legs and slow him down.

The one Cas is facing is a young man, probably in his early twenties. He’s huge- not as tall as Sam, but close- and built, as Dean would most likely say, “like a brick shithouse”.

In short, Cas doesn’t like his options. This man is most definitely about brute force, whereas Cas’ style tends towards strategizing and exploiting weaknesses. And as this demon stumbles forward towards him like an avalanche, Cas’ mind is having trouble coming up with any weaknesses at the moment. The only advantage he’s pretty sure he has right now is speed, and in the rather confined quarters, stuck between the front row of seats and the raised platform where the screen used to be, it’s hardly an advantage.

He can hear Dean sparring with the other two demons as he ducks a swing from the larger man, attempting to get a proper jab into his side as he skirts under him, but really only cracking his hand on incredibly muscled skin in the process. He’s briefly reminded of the time Dean tried to punch him in Zachariah’s green room, and suddenly has a lot more sympathy for Dean’s hand at the time.

The demon straightens up and turns around, getting ready to charge him again. Cas catches a brief glance of Dean’s fight over the man’s meaty shoulder, and to his horror, he watches as one of them manages to hold Dean’s arms behind him as the other hits him hard enough in the face that it echoes horrifically all through the room.

“ _Dean_!” Cas shouts, as the man moves towards him again, fists up and promising quite a beating. Frantically, Cas grabs the tiny water pistol from the inside pocket of his jacket that Dean had given to him as a joke a couple weeks ago, but Cas had decided would actually be more useful than sprinkling water out of a flask at encroaching enemies. He sprays the man mid-charge and gets him right in the eye, forcing him to clasp both hands over his eye, howling in pain as steam starts to drift upwards through his fingers.

There’s another terrifying crack from Dean’s side of the fight, and incensed, Cas manages to get both arms around the demon’s neck, and, putting his entire weight behind it, slams the demon’s face down onto the bottom portion of one of the moth eaten movie chairs. The demon goes down like a dropped sack of flour, and Cas has to hope that’ll keep him out of the game for now as he rushes across the room to get to Dean.

Dean’s head is hanging down, blood dripping from his mouth. The demon that’s been doing the hitting is just pulling back for another one, when Cas slams into him, bringing them both to the dust covered floor. He has to bet that Dean is able to get out of the other demon’s hold as he manages to pin this one down under him, hands on his throat. Hoarse, rattling sounds are coming out of him, and keeping one hand there, Cas once again puts every ounce of strength he has behind a punch, and hits the demon beneath him hard enough that he practically throws himself across the room with the force of it. The man’s jaw cracks harshly, and for good measure, Cas hurriedly squirts a couple of streams of holy water into his open mouth.

He stands up to see Dean still grappling with the demon who has a grip on him, and just as he’s about to run forward to help, he sees the demon’s eyes spark orange and yellow, and he falls away to reveal a breathless, battered Sam, Ruby’s bloodied knife in hand.

“Good timing,” Dean says mushily, taking a knee and holding his head in one hand. Cas hurries forward, bending down next to Dean.

“Take care of the other two,” he tells Sam, indicating their respective positions.

Sam goes to deal with the demons, and Cas holds Dean’s face between his hands.

“Look at me, Dean,” he commands, “We need to make sure you’re going to be okay.”

“Where are Kevin and Charlie?” Dean demands of Sam, completely ignoring Cas, “Sam, where the hell are they?”

Sam comes back to them, wiping the knife off on his shirt.

“Let’s just say this knife was already bloody when I stabbed the one who had a hold on you,” Sam says grimly, reaching forward to help heave Dean up. Instead, however, Dean leans away, horrified.

“You _killed_ them?” He yells, voice wobbly, blood still oozing slowly out of his mouth. His head is still in his hand, and even down on one knee, Cas can see him starting to lose his balance.

“What? No, Dean, I killed the demon they had left guarding Ms. Tran.” He shares a wide eyed look with Cas. “Charlie and Kevin are getting her out.”

“The demons did some serious damage,” Cas says to Sam, as Dean reaches a hand up to touch the blood on his chin. His eyes bug out.

“Why am I _bleeding_?” he asks, shocked. And then proceeds to vomit all over Cas and Sam’s shoes.

“Shit,” Sam says, moving forward to throw one of Dean’s arms around his shoulders. “Cas, go find the others. Help them back to the car. I’ll take care of Dean.”

Cas finds that he can’t take his eyes off Dean’s bloody and bruised face. This is _his_ fault. If only he had been there faster, if only he had-

“ _Cas_ ,” Sam snaps, collected on the surface, but Cas can hear the concern starting to ebb through the cracks, “Go. We’ll be fine.”

Cas spends another moment deliberating, but ultimately follows Sam’s instructions.

“I’ll see you at the car,” he says, clipped, and does his very best to ignore how it feels like he can’t breathe.

***

“I feel sick,” Dean complains as they shuffle their way out of the theater, the majority of his weight held up by Sam.

“Let me know if you’re going to throw up again,” Sam says, his hopes that the cold night air will wake Dean up properly succinctly dashed.

“Cas just hasn’t had good luck with shoes, man,” Dean says, voice full of melancholy and completely out of it. “I just want him to have at least one decent pair of shoes, y’know?” he laments to Sam, who’s busy trying to haul Dean along as he starts to really feel the punch the demon landed to his ribs earlier. His brother is solid enough that basically carrying him back to the car is going to be like dragging a sack full of potatoes. Maybe he should have gotten Cas to hang around.

“His shoes have not been good to him,” Dean continues to babble, and Sam can see the drops of blood dripping off Dean’s chin leaving a half-hearted bread crumb trail behind them. The front of his shirt is completely soaked in blood. “First he’s an angel so technically, he doesn’t even need shoes. Then, a short little man steals the pair he _does_ manage to find. _Then_ I spew chunks on his new shoes!” Dean exclaims, obviously extremely distressed by this fact in his delirium, “Who even does that, man?”

Sam doesn’t say anything, just silently lets his brother talk himself out. Dean actually shuts up for the next couple of minutes, but Sam has a sinking feeling it’s because he can feel Dean losing his balance more often. He’s sure that over the course of their lives, both he and Dean have suffered an incredible number of concussions, both minor and severe, and this is definitely one of the more severe ones. Usually Dean’s batting him away, absolutely refusing to be doctored, and yet here he is, leaning heavily into Sam’s side like he’s his personal crutch.

“I’m tired,” he informs Sam when they’re about ten minutes from the Impala. “I want to stop.”

“Not a chance,” Sam says, trying to be as gentle as possible as he forces Dean to keep walking. “We’ll be at the car soon, then we’re taking you to the hospital.”

“Good idea,” Dean agrees, searching his pockets amicably. He pulls out his keys with a cheerful jingle. “Driving will make me feel better.”

“You bet,” Sam says mildly as he slips the key ring off Dean’s finger and puts them in his own pocket.

Dean is quiet for a moment before he says, “I could give Cas my shoes,” contemplatively, as if he’s just testing the idea out loud. He nods at himself. “Yeah. I think that’s a good idea.” He slaps Sam on the shoulder, grin bright and cheerful, if hazy. His face is pale. “Remember when I gave Cas my necklace to find god? He didn’t lose it. Or when I kept his coat for him when he died? I didn’t lose that either.” He goes quiet again for a second, before saying, much quieter and serious enough that Sam wonders momentarily if he’s somehow managed to talk himself out of his delirium, “Cas didn’t lose my soul in hell.”

“You guys are pretty good at finding each other,” Sam allows, feeling his newly bruised ribs twinge painfully as Dean stops abruptly to bend down to start untying his shoelaces, swaying dangerously. Sam tries to remember he shouldn’t manhandle Dean any more than he has to, so he pulls him up as kindly as possible by the armpits. “C’mon, man. Give him the shoes later.”

Dean starts walking again, Sam keeping an eye on the ground to make sure Dean’s laces aren’t loose enough to properly untie and then send the both of them flying when he trips over them.

“I shouldn’t have thrown that necklace away,” Dean says randomly, and it takes Sam a second to realize that he’s talking about the one Sam gave to him when they were kids.

“What? Dean, don’t worry about it.”

Dean shakes his head, eyes shut tight.

“No, ‘m sorry, Sam. For real.”

“Okay,” Sam says, unsure of what else to say. “Okay.”

***

Kevin’s not gonna lie. When he saw his mom for the first time in months, he cried. As Sam grappled with a demon and Charlie ran forward to start undoing the ropes holding her against the pillar, Kevin stood there with tears streaming down his face, crying. Maybe he’s not a fighter, but if there was ever any doubt, that moment clarified for him that he will always and forever be a mama’s boy.

He figures his mom doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on, since she was crying buckets as well. Charlie got the ropes undone with her pocketknife and Sam continued to battle a demon in the background, and Kevin fell to his knees and threw his arms around her and refused to let go for a good long while. Even as Sam managed to kill the demon and told them he was taking off to go help Dean and Cas, Kevin and his mom were frozen in their own little bubble, sniffling into each other’s shoulders and his mother repeating his name over and over like a mantra.

For that little slice of time, Kevin is safe again. He’s with his mom and his mom is with him, and he tries to ignore the fact that cold concrete is bleeding through the knees of his jeans and he can feel how skinny his mom is beneath his hug, can feel her shoulder bones poking his arm through her tatty shirt.

After what feels like an eternity and simultaneously no time at all, his mom pulls away, keeping her hands on his shoulder. Kevin doesn’t know how, but her grip is still as firm as ever, despite her gauntness and the bags under her eyes. Her face is wet with tears, and Kevin can imagine he’s just a messier mirror of her expression. She reaches out to run her hand through his hair, smiling, and Kevin hasn’t felt this happy in years.

“Your hair is so short,” is the first thing she says other than his name, tears continuing to leak out the corners of her eyes.

He can’t help it; he laughs.

“You hated it before,” he says, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. It’s like there’s a balloon in his chest, making him feel light as air.

“I never said that,” she protests, but they both know she’s lying. “But I love the new do,” she admits, and they both laugh and hug again. This time, Kevin makes eye contact with Charlie over his mother’s shoulder, who’s watching them but pretending like she’s not, eyes a little misty.

“Mom,” he says, pulling away again and standing up, offering his mother a hand. She accepts and stands, determined if a little shaky. “I want you to meet Charlie.”

His mom turns around, and Charlie comes forward, hand out.

“Ms. Tran,” she says, hurriedly wiping her eyes, “Hi. Hello. I-” she smiles as his mom shakes her hand, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Thank you,” she says, giving Charlie a small smile of her own. “But I’m afraid I don’t-”

And that’s when Cas bursts into the room, and with his expression it’s like a wave of cold water washes over them all, reminding them that there’s a dead body in the room and probably even more out in the actual theater area.

“We need to go,” he says, his voice tight and strained enough that it’s just on the edge of breaking. “ _Now_.”

***

It’s not even ten minutes to the hospital according to Charlie’s phone, and Sam makes it there in five. Charlie sits up front, Kevin and Linda squished together on one seat while Cas attempts to keep Dean awake on the other side of the car. He keeps nodding off onto Cas’ shoulder, and Cas can only shout his name so many times before Dean becomes immune to it, completely tuning him out.

Dean complains about the bright, fluorescent lights of the emergency room as Sam and Cas half carry, half guide him through the halls. A pair of nurses take Dean off their arms, and Cas looks like he’s about to raze an entire city when they tell them to wait in the waiting room with everyone else.

He sits between Sam and Charlie, the Trans on the other side of her, and he finds his leg jiggling up and down at an extremely fast rate, which he finds strange. He’s never had a nervous habit like that before.

“I can practically feel you blaming yourself for this,” Sam murmurs, “So take my advice, and don’t.”

“I’m taking the blame for this because it’s _my_ fault,” Cas hisses back, “If I had just done something-”

Sam shakes his head. “Nope. You can’t do that to yourself, Cas. On hunts, shit happens. That’s just how it is.”

“’Shit’ only happened because I wasn’t fast enough, or strong enough, or good enough,” Cas argues. “If I was still an angel…” He tries to ignore the way this idea has been clawing at him for months, and how it’s finally cracking open his jaw and crawling out, slimy and dark and full of such self-hatred that Cas isn’t sure he won’t just shrivel up and die without it.

“Well you’re not,” Sam says, exceptionally gentle. “You’ve got to do the best with what you’ve got, man. You think I like sticking a knife into every demon we see as opposed to me being able to exorcise it? It’s been years, and sometimes I still think, ‘what if?’” He shakes his head again, “But worrying about ‘what if’s doesn’t do anything. You and I, I think, know more about that than anyone.”

Cas feels the fight _whoosh_ out of him in one great big rush, but he thinks it’s because of how tired he is rather than him actually wanting to let the matter drop.

“I’m so afraid,” he says in a small voice, “What if-”

“ _Ah_ ,” Sam catches him with his own small smile, but Cas can see the genuine worry underneath it, “Dean’ll be fine,” Sam says, like he’s trying to convince himself as well. “Dean’s been hit upside the head more times than he or I could count, and honestly, I think he gets a little smarter every time, but don’t tell him I said that. He’ll be fine.”

Cas can’t help but notice how Sam’s leg is now jiggling in time with his own.


	10. “I Must Not Be So oh oh oh”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title taken from the beatles' song 'maxwell's silver hammer'

Dean doesn't die, which everyone celebrates by thankfully leaving him in peace and quiet when he comes home from the hospital the day after the accident (and after another day of driving).

The Trans are reunited, Charlie is back, Sam and Cas are okay; it almost feels like they’ve won one for once.

Of course, that’s barring the fact that their to do list is still longer than Dean’s arm and apparently they have to come to terms with the fact that they’ve been living in some sort of bizarre-o reality in which their lives are just a plot hole ridden story that the author was too fucking lazy or incompetent to fix.

So really, business as usual.

There’s about a week of relative inactivity at the bunker, while Dean is forced to sleep for about fourteen hours a day to stave off the concussion and everyone else sits around in various states in the library worrying about one thing or another.

The only exciting thing that has apparently happened (Dean wasn’t actually there, since he was busy drooling into his pillow at the time) was when Linda found out Crowley was in the bunker and almost brought a one woman cavalry down upon him in the dungeon. It took Sam, Charlie, and even Kevin’s reluctant help to talk her down. Now, Dean doesn’t know Linda extremely well, but if he knows her at all, he bets she’s practically been breathing flames out her nostrils since then. For some ridiculous reason, they’re all holding out hope that Crowley becomes useful in some way at some point in the future, because as of now, he’s just an annoying, British plot device that no one cares about.

Not nearly as exciting, but according to Sam, the day they got back to the bunker and Dean was still pretty out of it, he tried to give Cas his shoes for some reason. He still can’t remember why, Cas is just as confused as he is, and Sam refuses to say anything, the bastard. 

Sometime in the middle of September, when it’s starting to smell like fall again, Dean hears a yell from what sounds like the kitchen, and practically trips over himself trying to sprint in that direction.

“What the hell?” he gasps out, his head pounding, when he gets to the doorway and sees Kevin sitting there with a big, gooberish smile on his face.

Sam, Linda, Cas, and Charlie all come sliding to a stop behind him too, questions varying from another bemused, “What the hell?”, and a fun little string of cuss words from Linda as she realizes that indeed, Kevin is not bleeding out on the kitchen floor.

When the babbling dies down, and everyone has watched Linda ream out her son in front of them, they all pile into the kitchen, fanning out around the table.

“So?” Dean eventually asks, arm crossed, “What was the war cry for?”

“I did it,” Kevin says, triumphant, looking at all of them in turn. “I got through to him.”

“To Chuck?” Sam asks, wide eyed. “Holy shit, man, are you serious?”

“Yeah,” Kevin’s grinning hugely, “Getting rid of the grief and stress of not knowing whether my mother was dead or alive was actually helpful in how much of myself I’d be able to concentrate. Who’d have thought?”

“That’s my Kevin,” Linda says, beaming with pride, as Sam and Dean shift uncomfortably.

“You’re definitely advanced placement in our hearts,” Charlie jokes, and then adds, “Also in geography, because you’re basically the best GPS in the world.”

“Is that all it takes to impress you guys?” Kevin asks sarcastically, “Geeze, I don’t know why I bothered with the whole leviathan-demon-angel tablet thing.”

“Where is Chuck’s location?” Cas asks, kind of missing the point of the whole ‘heartwarming teasing’ thing.

 Kevin raises an eyebrow.

“Lucky for you guys, Maine is nice this time of year.”

***

**Maine**

**Somewhere off the grid**

The last town they hit had been Oakfield, and from there, they’ve been driving northwest, lost in a sea of burgeoning fall colors.

Charlie’s been advising them via text from Lebanon, trying to help them locate Chuck, who, according to Kevin, is in a small cabin in the forest. Which wasn’t exactly the breakthrough they’d been looking for, but at least they’ve narrowed down the state, and with Charlie’s help, they’re closing in on the area as well.

_Lucky thing you guys have a friend who’s kind of an expert in living off the grid,_ she texts Sam now, who snorts.

He replies, _Yeah, cause we’ve never done that. No way._

_Okay, correction. Lucky thing you guys have a friend who’s an expert at being an expert._

Sam has to give her that one.

_Any luck on the numbers Kevin saw?_ Sam types and sends. Kevin’s been getting different images since he’s been successful in reaching out to Chuck; a lake, the cabin, a bottle of bourbon. His most recent vision has been a glimpse of some old, yellowing documents, and if they can parse out the address from that, it should be easy enough to track him down from there.

_Getting there. Maine’s a lot of backcountry to search through._

_Ok. Keep us updated. Thanks._

Sam pockets his phone and peeks at Dean out of the corner of his eye. He’s been trying to keep an eye on him to make sure the concussion is gone, but like always, Dean is being three kinds of petulant and assuring Sam he’s fine. Sam’s pretty sure Dean could be walking around with his arm freshly cut off and still try to convince everyone he’s good to go. Luckily, Cas seems to be a stickler about checking as well, whether it’s from his newfound sense of how fragile human life is, or because he’s still blaming himself for what happened, Sam’s not sure, but he appreciates the help regardless.

Taking care of his big brother- no matter how much said big brother doesn’t want to be taken care of- always seems to remind him that Dean is, in fact, a person. Not just his big brother or a pain in the ass or even the guy who talked him out of suicide a couple months ago. It’s like when kids realize their parents actually have a life outside of being a parent. It’s a weird slap of reality in the face, but since they regularly deal with things that aren’t exactly expected life learnings, a little slap of reality is always nice.

“Charlie’s still working on those numbers,” Sam tells the car at large. “She’ll get back to us when she can.”

“So we just keep driving around nowheresville until she texts us back?” Dean asks, “That doesn’t seem too environmentally friendly.”

“We could have stopped in Oakfield,” Sam says, “I suggested we hang around there until we knew the location.”

Dean shakes his head.

“It was bad enough when we were here for the selkee in the summer,” he says, striving for normalcy, “At least that was mostly on the coast.”

It takes Sam a moment to realize what Dean means. When he finally gets it, he feels his stomach churn guiltily.

Just a couple hours south of them is the Hundred-Mile Wilderness where Dean got out of purgatory. They don’t talk about it a lot- in fact, they don’t talk about that entire year a whole lot- but from the look on his face, Sam can definitely guess that it’s still something that he’s dealing with. Not only was it the first place he stepped in over a year where something didn’t want to kill him, but it was also just after he’d left Cas behind. Sam knows for sure that that still keeps him awake at night, sometimes, despite the reveal that it was Cas’ choice to stay behind.

If they’re being honest here, all forests around here are pretty indistinguishable. But Dean is way more sentimental than he lets on, and Sam knows better than to say anything. The fact that Dean even mentioned anything in the first place is almost a miracle in and of itself.

“It’s strange,” Cas pipes up from the back seat, “How autumn smells different.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, seemingly grateful for the change of subject. After all, Sam is pretty sure Dean’s never really talked much about purgatory, even to Cas, who was there for it. He can only imagine how many things have gone unsaid since then. It probably isn’t too comfortable to be talking around the subject when both of them are in such close quarters.

“Yes,” Cas says, looking out the window. “It’s… crisper,” he observes. “Although,” he continues in a deadpan voice, “I may just feel some solidarity with the season since it can also be called ‘fall’.”

Sam feels his own eyes go wide, and he thinks if Dean had been taking a sip of something at the moment, he would have spat it out all over the windshield.

“Uh…” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly.

Cas leans forward to put a hand on the shoulders of each of their seats.

“That was a joke,” he informs them. “I was making a joke.”

Dean lets out a breath.

“Jesus,” he says. “You gotta give a guy some warning when you do something like that.”

“I thought the whole point of jokes like that are their spontaneity.”

“Not from _you_ ,” Dean clarifies. “You’re like as dry as the desert, man. It’s impossible to tell if you’re joking or not.”

“That just makes it funnier, right?” Cas asks, and Sam’s pretty sure he’s fucking with them by this point. “If it would make you more comfortable, I can always be sure to tell you when I’m preparing to make a joke.”

“Alright, alright,” Dean concedes, waving him off.

“That wasn’t a joke, by the way,” Cas says, “Just so you know.”

“Oh my god,” Dean says, momentarily clunking his head into the steering wheel. “We’ve created a monster.”

“If that joke makes me a monster, then what do your jokes make you?” Cas asks, a current of smugness running as an undertone to his words. Sam wonders if he’s in the middle of watching actual, lighthearted banter. It’s bizarre. Especially with words like ‘monster’ being thrown around with legitimate levity. It speaks to something deeper than Dean and Cas’ terrible sense of humor.

“A god among men, obviously.”

“I don’t know if video clips of animals doing silly things is the equivalent of godhood, Dean. I would know, seeing as I was created in his image.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to be a fluffy baby animal? Because if that’s what you’re saying, then I have news for you, pal. _Everyone_ wants to be a fluffy baby animal.”

“Is this conversation really happening?” Sam asks, but is promptly ignored. He’s been a part of a lot of conversations about a lot of things, but this has to be one of the strangest ones. Maybe he’s in the middle of a fever dream.

Or maybe Dean is made of marshmallow on the inside, just like he’s always suspected.

“I don’t particularly want to be any kind of animal, no.”

“Well that’s just ridiculous.” Then, when he catches a particular twitch of Cas’ eyebrow in the mirror, his own raises in response.

“Wait a second. Are you joking?”

Cas shrugs.

“I suppose that’s for you to decide,” he says.

“Dude are you joking or not.”

“Maybe.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “Sam, we’re officially referring to Cas as ‘the duckling’ now, since he feels like being a smartass.”

“There’s nothing wrong with ducklings, Dean. In fact, I thought you thoroughly enjoyed baby animals.”

Dean sputters, face turning red, and Sam just barely manages to hold in a snort, although he thinks his ears are going to pop with the effort of it.

“Touché,” he finally says, and Sam can’t help but notice that he never actually refutes Cas’ observation.

***

Charlie calls Sam about half an hour later when they’re _really_ out in the sticks, car stopped along the two lane, unmarked highway, so that Cas can go into the woods and piss against a tree.

As much as Dean is loath to admit it (for more reasons than the obvious), he has to say it _is_ pretty beautiful out here. They’ve only seen one or two cars in the last couple hours, both going the opposite direction, and the multicolored leaves give off a much different vibe than the endless corn fields they’re generally subjected to in their preferred workspace, the Midwest. At least it feels like there are actual seasons here, like time passes properly. Sometimes the backdrop of the Midwest feels like the same day/night cycle over and over, nothing ever changing and nothing ever moving forward.

He agrees with Cas, actually. Autumn really does smell wonderful. Not that Dean would mention it to anybody, but he’s kind of looking forward to start cooking heartier meals as the cooler months set in; chili and casseroles and robust lasagnes, the kind of food that forces you to pop the top button on your jeans as you sprawl in front of the tv after supper, stomach full and sated.

To get to that point, though, they first have to navigate the backroads of Maine with a continuously dying cell signal and only a vague clue as to where Chuck may be hiding out. Cas seems to accept the ambiguous nature of Kevin’s connection, but Dean’s pretty sure he’s going to need to write a strongly worded letter to someone about the power of the prophets. Sure, Chuck was privy to every detail of their pathetic lives, but somehow they don’t have perfect inner compasses? Dean feels robbed.

He’s busy doing absolutely nothing but leaning against the front of the car, Cas still off a little in the woods, and Sam sitting shotgun and on the phone, when two people randomly stumble out of the forest and onto the road, only about fifty yards in front of them.

From what Dean can tell from this distance, they’re dirty enough to be campers, hair wild and skin filthy. It’s a man and a woman, both wearing khaki shorts and tank tops, but they have no gear with them. When they catch sight of the car, they immediately start in their direction, and Dean’s on red alert right away.

“Shit,” he says, and turns quickly to catch Sam’s inquisitive gaze through the windshield. Sam follows the inclination of his head to the people walking towards them, says something to Charlie, and gets out of the car, leaving the phone on the front seat. He hurries to the trunk and Dean throws him the keys across the length of the car. He doesn’t usually drive with a gun on him, only because using a pistol as a backrest isn’t exactly the most comfortable way to travel, and he’s not twenty two and trying to look cool anymore. His gun is in the glove compartment, but the last thing he wants to do is lose his position.

They call out when they’re closer, greetings that are kind enough. Dean gives them a short, curt smile. He’s given the odd hitchhiker a ride, but something about these two doesn’t sit right.

Sam comes up beside him, and Dean knows he’s currently hiding a glock in his jacket. He subtly passes Dean a second one, and Dean stuffs it into his back pocket.

Cas is taking the longest damn piss known to man, apparently.

“Hello! Hi!” the woman calls out, her shoulder length hair in a ratty ponytail. The man beside her has twigs caught in his bushy beard. “Gosh, are we lucky we ran into you!” she says, half out of breath.

“What’s your trouble?” Dean asks warily, making sure to keep a grip on the handle of the gun.

The woman swallows heavily, kneading the fabric of her shirt nervously between her hands.

“There was a bear,” she manages, and Dean can see scratches all up and down her arms, as if they were running very fast through the brush, “We got away, but just barely.”

Despite the potentially dire situation, Dean wonders if Cas’ newfound sense of humor would have picked up on that pun.

“That’s pretty lucky,” Dean says, “Black bears usually mean trouble.”

“It was distracted by our food,” the man adds on. “Thank god.”

“Thank god,” Dean repeats, trying to take a step back and forgetting the Impala is at his back, “Yeah.”

“So we were, um, wondering if we could trouble you for a ride into town?” the woman asks, “We’ve been walking for a long time and we could really use a lift.”

Dean doesn’t fail to notice the way the two of them are encroaching on him and Sam, almost like they’re trying to get them stuck with the car at their backs.

“Sure,” Dean says, falsely cheery, and can see Sam throw him a panicked glance in his peripheral vision. Dean doesn’t take his eyes off the guy, who’s in front of him, and inevitably going to be the one he fights. “I just need you to answer one question first.”

“Of course,” the woman says.

“Christo?” Dean asks, and to his complete non-surprise, their eyes flash black.

“Naturally,” he simpers, and the demons smile widely at him.

“Haven’t heard that one in a while,” the woman snarls, “Dusting off the classics?”

“More than you know,” Dean quips, and the ball drops.

***

Dean’ll really have to give Cas an award for this one. He’s seen hunters miss fights for some pretty awful reasons, but taking a piss really does have to take the cake.

“Cas!” he bellows, just before getting walloped in the stomach by a demon whose vessel probably runs marathons on his work breaks. From the sounds of it, the woman is giving Sam a run for his money as well, and usually Dean would make fun of him for getting matched by someone more than a foot shorter than him, but he’s a little busy getting his head smashed off the hood of the Impala to really think the insult through.

His first thought is to mourn the paint job, and his second thought is to acknowledge the blinding pain that’s now in his head. Obviously his still healing brain hasn’t taken too well to more head trauma. Who’d have thunk it.

He manages to whip out his gun after shoving the demon stumbling a few steps back, hoping to kneecap him to give himself some more time, but when he pulls the trigger, all he gets is a completely anti climatic _click_.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, his hearing weirdly distorted and his vision swimming as the demon realizes what’s going on and charges him again. Dean manages to dodge the charge, sending the demon sprawling onto the hood of the Impala. Dean takes the opportunity to spin the demon around and dig his forearm into his throat, pressing down and cutting off the air.

“Knife!” he’s yelling at Sam, “Give me the fucking knife!”

When Sam fails to answer or toss the knife in his general direction, Dean takes a brief second to glance over to where his brother is supposed to be fighting, and all he sees is a trail of broken twigs leading off the fairly deep embankment on the side of the road.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” he mutters, as he’s forced to turn his attention back to the demon at hand. His voice sounds strange, like it’s not coming from his mouth, and he begs his brain to hold it together for the rest of the fight.

Since the bullet part of his gun isn’t feeling like being any help at the moment, he opts for the next best option; he pistol whips the demon, once on each side, tangentially mourning the front of his car the entire time. He wonders if this guy’s fucking back muscles are going to leave dents in the hood or not.

When he takes a second to catch his breath, the guy manages to shove him off, and when the world tilts around him and Dean crashes to the ground, his inner ear balance completely fucked for the moment, he thinks, _this is it_.

He watches the guy’s shoes walking towards him (and don’t humans have only two legs? He swears he can see four) when out of nowhere, he disappears.

There’s a bunch of grunting, and then the telltale fizzle of Ruby’s knife being plunged into a demon’s vitals somewhere offscreen. Dean does his best to sit up, bracing both palms on the asphalt, and then there’s a slightly smoky Cas by his side, one hand on his shoulder and one hand spread across the side of his head.

“Dean,” he says, eyes big and worried, “You’re bleeding.”

Dean brings a hand up to his nose, and sure enough, it comes away coated in blood.

“Better than my head,” he says sagely, and the fire in Cas’ eyes doesn’t die one bit. In fact, it flares.

“Is he okay?” Sam’s voice asks, off to the side and out of breath.

“No,” Cas says, clipped.

“I’m fine,” Dean snaps, and considers taking Cas’ hands off him, but decides against it. They feel nice.

Dean manages to move his eyes to see Sam carrying the man’s body off to the embankment, shovel from who knows where stuck under his arm, carefully heading down into the woods.

“I’ll go bury them,” he says neutrally.

“Your nickname has changed,” Dean tells Cas bitterly. “You now hold the official award for longest piss ever.”

“Dean, I’m so-” Cas shakes his head and it makes Dean dizzy, so he closes his eyes. All he can feel is Cas’ hand on his face and Cas’ breath puffing against his cheek. “I was helping Sam and we got up here as soon as possible-”

“Oh god, Duckling, I was just kidding,” he complains in a lazy voice, and when Dean opens his eyes again, Cas looks just as pained as before. “Dude,” he says, reaching up to pat Cas on the cheek, “I’m fine, honest.”

Cas sighs and lets out a shaky breath.

“So I’m assuming we didn’t kill all the demons when we were in Pleasure Beach,” he says, “They must have been the ones that got away.”

“I thought the security was a little light,” Dean agrees, using Cas’ shoulders to brace himself on as he stands. “Fuck,” he says as he sways a bit. Cas immediately stands up to steady him.

“We should take you back to the hospital,” Cas urges, looking dubiously at the head shaped dent in the hood of the Impala.

“I’m fine,” Dean repeats testily. He feels his world tilt again and grabs at Cas’ arm to steady himself. “I just need… to slow my head down.”

“That sounds like a perfectly reasonable option,” Cas says dryly.

“Glad you agree,” Dean says tiredly. He brings his hand up to his nose again, where at least the bleeding has stopped. Once he has a hand on his face, however, he seems to realize something and looks at Cas accusingly.

“Dude,” he says, “You just had your hands on your dick and then you were _touching my face_.”

“I keep my penis just as clean as the rest of me, Dean. I showered this morning at the motel.”

Dean shuts his eyes again, this time to lament Cas’ existence.

“Oh my god, you’re a freak,” he says. “A total freak.”

“A freak who’s a duckling,” Cas corrects, and Dean cracks open an eye to see him smirking at him. He’s dangling a tiny, pocket-sized bottle of hand sanitizer between his fingers. “I used it,” he informs Dean. “Your face is decidedly penis free.”

“You fucker,” Dean says with benediction, and lets Cas half drag him into the back seat of the Impala.

***

“This is non-negotiable, Dean.”

“You’re completely harshing my mellow, here, man.”

“I’ll harsh every single one of your mellows, Dean. I’m staying back here.”

“I can’t even stretch out. The goal here is to pass out horizontal-like until we get where we need to go.” He thumps the back of the driver’s side seat where Sam is now sitting, still on the phone with Charlie, “Which is where, exactly, chief?”

 “Hold on,” Sam says into the phone, before turning around to glare at Dean. “God, you’re annoying.”

“I’m an _invalid_!”

“Jesus, Dean, shut up.”

“You didn’t tell me to shut up last time this happened. I thought you were going to weep into my bosom for Christ sake.”

“And we’re all _so_ grateful you’re going to pull through. Besides, I think Cas is worrying about you enough for both of us combined.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, disgruntled, making sure to catch Cas’ gaze, “Maybe Cas should find some other things to worry about.”

“I prioritize,” Cas injects dryly, stubbornly making himself comfortable in his corner of the back seat.

“You are overcompensation city,” Dean informs him, “I was just ribbing you, man. I know you had my back back there.”

“That didn’t stop the demon from exacerbating your concussion,” Cas states stubbornly, and Dean looks like he’s about to massage his temples, but then thinks better of it.

“Where are we going, Sam?” he asks, sounding suddenly tired, deigning not to reply to Cas. Obviously this conversation is over.

Sam clears his throat and there’s the rustling of a piece of paper before he says, “Based on the numbers Kevin saw, Charlie thinks it’s an unorganized territory back here. She did a little research, and it turns out we want Township 13, Range 8, West of the Easterly Line of the State.”

Dean scrunches up his face, searching his inner geographical database, Cas assumes.

“Well we’re heading in the right direction, at least,” he says. “Didn’t Kevin say something about a lake as well?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, and then into the phone, “Yeah, hold on a sec, Charlie.” He flips through some more papers. “Big Machias Lake is the closest body of water resembling what Kevin saw in his vision. And-” he stops mid-sentence, and Cas can just hear the sound of Charlie’s voice in Sam’s ear- “Okay, thanks Charlie. Is that everything?” He glances down at his phone. “Yeah, judging from the bars and static I’m getting right now, this’ll probably be it until we get back to civilization.” A pause, as Charlie’s voice fills the receiver again, and Sam scribbles some numbers down, then, “Sounds good. We’ll give you guys a call whenever we get back. Yep. Bye.” He hangs up, looking back over the seat at Dean and Cas.

“Alright,” he says, “Charlie researched the area, searching for cabins, lake homes, etc. If you can believe it, she managed to dig up info on a cabin way off the grid that goes back generations in Chuck’s family.”

“Chuck comes from a family of recluses?” Dean asks sarcastically, “Shocker.”

“I don’t think being a prophet of the lord helped much, either,” Cas adds.

“True,” Dean agrees.

“So we’ve got some coordinates, actually,” Sam says, waving a paper back at them. “It’s going to be a bit of a hike, though,” he looks back at Dean worriedly. “You think you can handle it?”

“Handle it?” Dean scoffs with a great deal of bravado, “I think the real question is can this hike handle _me_?”

“Uh oh, Cas,” Sam says, faux-worried, “I think Dean may be delusional again. Better keep a real close eye on him.”

They pull off the side of the road, not without a nice epithet from Dean directed at his brother.

***

Dean wakes up with the pale light of morning streaming through windows from both sides, and for a second is completely disoriented until he remembers that they’re in the Impala. Last he remembers, it was late afternoon, and now, judging on the position of the sun, it’s probably about eight the next morning, and-

\- and he doesn’t remember having a pillow the night before.

When he properly opens his eyes, he realizes just how fun a night spent sleeping in the car with a concussion is; that is to say, not very. It feels like someone replaced his brain with a bag of wet sand and little granules are trickling out one by one.

But he is, inexplicably, laying on something soft. His eyes adjust to the light and the first thing he sees is one of Sam’s gargantuan arms slung over the back of the front seat. He blinks blearily, and only when he starts to sit up does he feel the hand in his hair.

He immediately freezes, because he’s just realizes that his pillow is, indeed, Cas’ lap. Cas’ hand has drifted to resting in his hair at some point in the night, just like Dean’s head has somehow managed to migrate this far south.

There’s only so much protocol for dealing with a situation like this. Cas is still asleep as far as Dean can tell, and his head is bent at what looks like a pretty painful angle. Really, any sort of activity in the Impala that’s not driving or sitting is bound to be uncomfortable in some way, shape, or form.

That doesn’t take away from the fact that Cas’ fingers feel nice in his hair.

His knee jerk reaction, of course, is to shove away from this as quickly as possible. As much as he loves and treasures this car, there will always be a part of him that still expects to see John in the front seat whenever he looks, and he can’t imagine waking up with a head full of angel hands is something John would have approved of.

He doesn’t shove away, though. He’s always found himself torn between leaning into touch like this and trying to stave it off, if only because he’s learned ‘permanence’ isn’t a word that means much in this life, and when applied to Cas, the definition becomes even more tenuous.

Instead, he does neither. He freezes, unsure.

He _wants_ , he thinks. But the want inside him is so shattered and feeble that he’s not quite sure how to feel it like he thinks he should. Something happened in that motel room last week, between him and Cas, and at the time, he was going on nothing but instinct, refusing to properly identify it. There was a tension in the room, a charge that heated Dean’s skin and made his voice rough and his mind absent.

In the open air of the forest, however, there’s only so many excuses Dean can make.

Lying here though, head in Cas’ lap and Cas’ hand in his hair, Dean’s still not sure. His brain has clogged up, chugging and shuddering along at the rate of rush hour traffic, and maybe it’s because he’s genuinely afraid of whatever’s lead him to this point, or maybe it’s because he feels so incredibly lost, or maybe it’s a whole other reason he’s barely let himself consider, but he just doesn’t, for the life of him, know what to do.

Ever so gently, he eases out from under Cas’ touch and quietly slips back to his own side of the car. Cas barely moves, and Dean can’t help but be glad he hasn’t learned how to sleep like a hunter yet. Sam does stir up front, though, so Dean opens the back door as quietly as possible to slip out into the cool morning, the dying grass and leaves of the trees covered in morning dew.

His head is pounding as he stretches the cramped backseat of the Impala out of his system, arms above his head and practically groaning in pleasure at getting his full range of movement back. He knows he's going to have to rest up again after they find Chuck, either because Sam or (most likely Cas, since Cas is still test driving what kinds of injuries to get worked up over) Cas'll freak out at the first sign of wobbles and practically chain him to his bed. The only reason he didn't have to do it last week was because Dean had practically slept through his entire recovery, thanks in part to the ridiculous knuckles on the demon that made his face look like modern art. He's pretty sure his nose has shifted a couple inches to the right, actually.

When he was out last week, he had had strange dreams. Intense, more emotional than physical. Fever dreams that had him waking up covered in sweat, sometimes hard, sometimes not, but not from arousal. It could be any number of things, but he mostly guesses it was just his physical body attempting to deal with the aftermath of some disturbing stuff. More often than not, however, he woke up scared.

He's pretty sure he knows what the dreams entailed- the majority of them anyway.

Often, it would segue from the beating at the hands of the demon, (which, in and of itself, as a singular event, is no different than a myriad of beatings he's faced over the years) to what happened several months ago in one of Lucifer’s crypts. It's unfortunate, really, that the execution of the two beatings- Dean on his knees, unable to defend himself- were so similar.

He brings a hand up to his cheek now, where there's still some tenderness. He has a fading black eye.

In a vague way that he can't really explain to himself, Dean feels strange, unbalanced at the thought of these injuries feeling so permanent, whereas the marks Cas left have long since faded- in fact, since Cas healed him up right after, Dean never really had anything visible to show for it. Healing so rapidly is disorienting- he forgets that sometimes.

Some people wear their scars with pride. People who have had cancer, or heart surgery, or even tattoos- these people find power in their marks, proud to show them off to the world and proud of what they've gone through.

Dean wonders what that feels like, to have scars. When Cas dragged him out of hell and rebuilt him, he made him just as he was before, but minus his scars. Minus the small white crescent on the inside of his middle finger when a guy threw a bottle at him in a bar fight back in '02. Minus the three claw marks on his hip from that werewolf in Illinois in '98. Minus the sliver just behind his ear from a falling library bookshelf in '95 that clocked him good.

Since then, since Cas brought him back, he's acquired new scars, of course. He's even still got that chipped tooth from a couple years ago of getting his face slammed off the edge of a dirty gas station bathroom sink by a pissed off junkie.

Thing is, all these marks, scars, burns, etc, they all have stories behind them. It's not like Dean _needs_ to remember the time a poltergeist threw him through a window and he didn't have the luck to land flat, but instead punctured a lung on an upturned piece of glass. But whereas normal people may measure the passing of their lives via calendars and day planners and birthdays, Dean tends to measure his by his scars.

He tries not to dwell on the absence of them, because if he does, he starts to feel adrift, useless, a balloon without a tether. His scars are his trophies, and even though he never wore them proudly, he wore them nonetheless.

He presses into the tender spot on his cheek until he has to pull away with a hiss.

Cas (who wasn't actually Cas at the time, but it's not like Dean’s dreams- or face- cared much) beat him to a pulp and then stitched him up and then flapped off to neverland. Dean doesn't blame the guy (for the beating- the flapping off is still debatable) but it doesn't change the fact that at the time, he was able to touch his face and nothing hurt. In fact, physically, he felt better than he had before entering the crypt in the first place.

And it was strange to be beaten by Cas, that he was supposedly going in for the kill when he was able to pull out of it at the last moment.

Dean clearly remembers thinking- _knowing_ \- that he was going to die at the hands of his best friend. He remembers clutching the sleeve of Cas' coat and begging for his life, for Cas, for anything he thought he could reach. He remembers the way the cold concrete floor dug into his knees and how the blood felt running down his face and how he could hardly see out of one eye. Cartilage was torn, bones were cracked, skin was broken.

And then...

_I'm so sorry, Dean_.

And he was healed. Scarless once more.

And Cas left.

Dean was fine, was alive and well and alone, despite just seconds beforehand being so brutally beaten that he could feel his pulse pounding behind his eyes.

And he had nothing to show for it. Like it had never happened.

The strangest thing about this whole dream scenario, however, is the moment Dean’s brain decides to wake him up; the sweat covered, terrifying second of his eyes rocketing open, frantically scanning the room, heart pounding. Because it’s not during any of the actual beating. It’s not the first punch, it’s not Dean telling Cas _I need you_ , it’s not the moment Cas reaches down to cup his face.

No, Dean wakes up about ten seconds after Cas leaves like it’s one of the worst nightmares he’s ever had. He stands up, face once again pristine, and hangs around just long enough to feel that complete aloneness settle in his gut. Just long enough to feel like he’s the only person left in the world-

-And then he wakes up.

Dean knows he’s being a baby about it. He fucking hunts _monsters_ for a living, has been beat to shit by people he doesn’t know, by people he loves- both when they were possessed and not. Hell, Sam tried to strangle him a couple years ago after their argument about working with Ruby. This thing with Cas is just the latest in a long line of Dean’s inability to deal with things.

So when Sam wakes up about five minutes later, stumbling out of the front seat looking like a baby deer trying to learn to walk for the first time, and he asks Dean how it’s going, Dean says, “Better than you. What, your fold away limbs creaky at the joints?”

“We spent the night in that car for _you_ , Dean,” Sam grouses as he starts jobbing on the spot, obviously trying to work out any kinks that have developed overnight, “So you’re welcome.”

“You don’t seem too worried about the re-emergence of my _serious concussion_ ,” Dean says, putting a ridiculous amount of emphasis on the last two words. Just because Dean doesn’t like actually being taken care of doesn’t mean he won’t use injury to his advantage if it means niggling at Sam.

“Well, the first time it happened, you were bleeding from the mouth and vomited on both me and Cas. Also, you wouldn’t stop talking about shoes.” He gives Dean a cursory up-and-down. “You look fine to me.”

“Oh, Sam,” Dean tsks, “You don’t watch enough Doctor Sexy. I could be internally bleeding. In my _brain_.”

“Right,” Sam scoffs, “I gotta go hit the head. You wake up Sleeping Beauty there and we’ll get started.”

Sam lopes off, and Dean tries to shake off his murky, early morning thoughts. He goes around to Cas’ side of the car and raps on the window with his knuckles, startling Cas into wakefulness.

“Rise and shine,” he announces through the glass, and Cas gives him his best stink eye.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Dean chastises, “I’m not the one who insisted on sleeping like a pretzel. Walk it off, dude.”

Cas exits the car, rubbing grit out of his eyes and looking exceptionally sleep rumpled.

“I don’t know if I’m ever going to get used to physical exhaustion,” he admits, jaw cracking around a yawn. “Spiritual exhaustion is one thing. But I _ache_.”

“Yeah. Perks of middle age. Actually…” Dean trails off, looking speculatively at Cas. “We don’t know how old Jimmy was. You could be forty five. Could be thirty two.”

“That’s definitely not middle age.”

“Okay, we ain’t talkin’ about the _actual_ middle ages here, Cas. We’re talking human years.”

“In that case, I’m thirty nine.”

Dean blanches. “Wow. I didn’t think it’d sound that weird to put an age on you.”

“My body is thirty nine,” Cas reminds him. “Whatever I actually am is much older than that, of course.”

“Whatever you are? What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asks, but is interrupted by the crunch of boots on dirt as Sam returns.

“Okay,” Sam says, looking at both of them in anticipation, “Ready to find Chuck?”

***

The GPS leads them into the woods, following the edge of the lake up and around to the northwest. It’s not an arduous hike by a long shot, which Cas is grateful for whenever he catches sight of Dean out of the corner of his eye. Dean hasn’t said a word about his head since they left the Impala, save to promise Cas that he’s, “Fine, Cas, jesus. Not like you’re a doctor anyways.” Which, no, Cas isn’t. He has a wealth of knowledge on the human body, but the majority of any medical knowledge he has is merely theoretical, minus whenever he’s had to explode a vessel or two (or, indeed, been the exploding vessel himself. That split second of watching his spleen rocket off into a nearby tree at Stull was definitely interesting and potentially educational).

The fact that Sam doesn’t seem overly worried about his brother is something Cas has been thinking hard on, and as they hit the hour mark in their hike, he thinks he’s finally come up with an- albeit disconcerting- answer. It’s, while perhaps not desensitization, something akin to it. There’s a certain gritty determination in both Sam and Dean that hardens them, and really, Cas thinks, it’s a trait shared by all people who have gone through any kind of string of hardships. To protect themselves, they have to pretend like things aren’t as bad as they are. They push it down, hide it away in some far corner of their minds where they rarely traverse, and only deal with it when they have no other choice. With Sam and Dean’s particular brand of trouble, Cas is pretty sure they’re both experts at this by now. He can only imagine how many times they’ve had to watch the other almost die, how many times they’ve had to watch their brother have a knife held to his throat.

And it’s on the heels of this realization that Cas knows he won’t be able to keep going like this. Whether he ever gets his grace back or not (still a topic he has trouble dwelling on) he knows, now, what it is to feel tangible, physical pain. As an angel, whether it was in the forefront of his mind or not, he always worried about the Winchesters to some degree. It’s not that falling has taught him how to feel (after all, he never would have fallen if he hadn’t felt in the first place) it’s just that it’s taught him to feel more empathetically. When Dean complains about his sore back after a hunt gone wrong, Cas can actually know what it’s like to have a sore back and express the appropriate sentiment. When Sam talks about how much he loves Dean’s homemade hamburgers, Castiel can enthusiastically nod along and agree with him, because food isn’t just different mixes of atoms to him anymore.

He cautiously wonders if, in the end, it doesn’t matter if he gets his grace back. Whether he gets it or not, he’ll still be able to talk to Sam about how good hamburgers are, and he’ll still be able to offer his condolences when Dean has a sore back.

The heavier thoughts slowly slide away as they get closer to their destination. Sam is at the helm on the GPS, leading them where they need to go with the occasional murmur to himself as he argues with the reading. They always make sure to keep the lake on their left, stopping every once in a while to reorient themselves.

The leaves haven’t changed near as much in Kansas yet as they have in Maine, and as they walk through the forest, Cas can’t help but be intrigued by the color surrounding them. He’s spent enough time watching humanity to know that juxtaposing the beauty of autumn while also citing it as the season where everything prepares to die is trite and cliché by now, but he still manages to find poetry in the way the leaves tend to go out at their brightest, at their most saturated, while simultaneously listening to the crunch of dead foliage under three heavy boot treads.  

As much as he can wax poetic about the season itself, though, Cas most strongly associates autumn with _Dean_. Maybe it’s the way the cold turns the tip of his nose pink, or the way his freckles look like falling leaves if Cas glances at him in the right light. Maybe it’s the way his unguarded expressions are from the warm side of the color spectrum, soft eyes and gentle crinkles of browns and oranges and reds. Dean is the kind of man who can carry the chill of autumn in his veins, but there’s always a fire burning under his skin, a warmth, a welcome home.

Cas firmly believes that it’s that same warmth that allowed him to find Dean in that frozen, arctic circle of hell all those years ago.

The next part he can only speculate on, but he thinks that he was the first one to reach Dean in the pit because he was the one who wanted to be welcomed home the most. Naomi said he had a crack in his chassis, and Cas knows that to be the truth. Without even realizing it, he spent so long looking for something to fill that fissure. Not something to complete him, necessarily, but something that would fill him with the same kind of feeling humans got while staring into a bonfire, spitting sparks into the night sky, dancing among their cousins the stars.

One day, he would like to sit around a fire just to see if it fills him with the same warmth that Dean does.  

***

Chuck’s cabin is nestled in the heart of absolutely nowhere. It’s a tiny, ramshackle thing, like one of those cabins in the woods teenagers rent for a weekend in cheap slasher flicks.

Hopefully, their first meeting with Chuck in years goes better than that.

“It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in decades,” Dean observes, taking in the way the front railings are both smashed and one of the front shutters is half falling off. The roof needs a definite re-shingling, and Dean’s pretty sure a moderate gust of wind could blow this place away. He has no idea how Chuck survives the cooler nights in there unless the guy is holding down the fort from the inside.

Sam snorts.

“Yeah, well, last place we saw him in he was basically living in squalor there too, just in a somewhat nicer package.”

“Heh. Do you still think he has that ugly ass bathrobe.”

Sam shoots him a look that asks a lot of questions, most of them probably starting and ending with the word ‘bathrobe’.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Nevermind,” he says, pulling his gun out. Sam and Cas do the same. “Let’s go.”

There’s not even a flicker of curtains as they climb the few incredibly creaky stairs of the porch. They fan out, Dean on one side of the frame and Sam and Cas on the other.

“Ready?” he mouths to Sam and Cas, who both give a curt nod.

Dean raps on the door with the butt of his gun. They wait in silence for about a minute, and when it doesn’t open, Dean tries again.

“Chuck,” he yells, “Chuck open the damn door before we have to break it down.”

After thirty seconds, there’s still no answer.

“Chuck,” Dean starts again, “I swear to god if you don’t open this door in ten seconds-”

The door creaks open, and Chuck’s scruffy face peers out, obviously terrified.

“I thought you were a nightmare,” he admits, voice scratchy.

Dean does his best to smile, and ignores the throbbing behind his eyes.

“Not quite,” he says cheerily, pushing past Chuck and into the cabin. “Try and think of this as like… a wet dream gone wrong.”

“Dean,” Sam hisses, as he and Cas follow after him through the door. Chuck hovers by the entrance, and Dean immediately notices that, yep, that’s the same ratty robe. He smirks at Sam, inclining his head, and Sam just glares at him.

“How would that be any better?” Chuck complains.

In the last four(ish) years, Chuck hasn’t changed an incredible amount, unless one would count the fact that he seems to have grown even more timid. He’s got more of a beard, as if he doesn’t bother to shave as much anymore, and his complexion has taken on a waxy quality, like he spends too much time around candles. Dean supposes in this environment, that’s completely possible.

“What the hell are you guys doing here?” Chuck asks. He turns to Sam, “You were in hell.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dean says flatly. “I assume that means you have no idea who’s publishing the new Supernatural books?”

“I- what? Someone’s publishing the Supernatural books again?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Oh my god.” Chuck walks over to a chair that’s leaking stuffing in the corner and collapses into it. He massages his temples and Dean doesn’t fail to notice the almost empty bourbon bottle on the scratched up coffee table. What he doesn’t see, however, is a typewriter. Not even a pen and paper.

“So you gave it up, huh?” Dean asks pointedly, “The writing, I mean.”

“I haven’t even written a grocery list since 2010.” Chuck shifts his weight in the chair, even though there really isn’t much to shift. He sinches his bathrobe tighter. “I don’t get visions anymore.”

“We’re aware,” Cas says mildly, and even after all these years, Chuck still flinches when Cas speaks to him. Dean wonders how he’s going to take it when he learns that he’s now living in a world of fallen angels.

“Your fifteen minutes is up, Chuck. There’s already another prophet up and kicking.”

Chuck shakes his head. “That doesn’t make sense,” he says, “There can’t be two prophets at once. One has to die for the next to rise.” As soon as he says it, looking at the faces surrounding him, he backtracks hastily, “Not that that’s an invitation.”

Sam spreads his hands, placating. “Hey, man. We’re not here to hurt you. We just need some answers.”

“I already told you,” Chuck says, “All I know about-” he makes weird, thrusting gestures with his hands towards the three of them, “- _that_ kind of stuff, is limited to 2010 and earlier.”

“Very well,” Cas says, crossing his arms, “Then tell us about where you disappeared to after Sam jumped into the pit. What have you been doing all this time?”

“I haven’t done anything, I swear. As soon as I finished Swan Song I took off.”

“You’re saying you’ve been holed up in this cabin for _four_ years?” Sam asks disbelievingly. “You really expect us to buy that?”

“Why would I lie to you?!” Chuck squeaks desperately, and he’s already bringing up his hands to protect himself. “I know nothing, I swear!”

“Eugh.” Dean looks at Chuck like he’s something he’d find on the bottom of his shoe. “Seriously, dude, we’re not going to hurt you.” He looks at Sam and mutters, “Tone down the Godzilla shit, man.” He ignores Sam’s icy stare as he turns back to Chuck, “Like I said, we’re not going to hurt you, but we _are_ going to need you to come with us.”

“Um- I don’t think that would be a good-” Chuck starts, but Dean’s already half yanking him out of the chair.

“Awesome,” he says, pushing him out the door. “Good reunion. Let’s go, skippy.”

***

 “How did you guys even find me?” Chuck asks later, once they’re back in the Impala and on their way to Lebanon. “I was about as off the grid as you can get.”

“We’re pretty smart,” Dean says, “But we’ve got smarter friends. In fact,-” he glances at the dashboard clock, “you’re gonna be meeting them in about nineteen hours.”

“Oh,” Chuck says meekly, “Great.” He sinks back into the leather seats as if he’s trying to disappear between them. He’s still wearing his robe.

***

They don’t get back until the next day, sometime in the afternoon. Despite the recent incidents with sleeping in cars, Dean is eager to get home and not near as eager to splurge on two motel rooms.

They manage to fill Chuck in on the majority of what’s happened since he took off, not without a few lectures from Dean about just disappearing into the night after something like that goes down.

“I was the writer,” Chuck protests, “I did my part.”

Dean mutters angrily at that for the next thirty miles, and Chuck’s face turns greyer at a fairly consistent pace.

They pull up to the bunker in silence, and Dean is incredibly eager to finally sleep in his own bed again. The movement of the car hasn’t exactly been stellar for his concussion, and he thinks a good sleep might finally kick it for good.

But first, they need to have the Conversation.

Charlie, Linda, and Kevin are all congregated in the library and waiting for them. As soon as they’re at the bottom of the stairs, Charlie is up and eager to get a good look at Chuck. Dean even sees Kevin eyeing them curiously- scoping out the potential competition, obviously. There’s that AP spirit.

After everyone’s said their hellos, Sam finally pushes Chuck into the spotlight.

Everyone stares at him for a moment, and with nothing else to do, he gives a little wave.

“Uh, hi,” he says.

Charlie looks at the Winchesters like this is some kind of joke.

“Really?” she asks flatly.

Dean spreads his hands. “You know heaven. They’d want the most submissive dude they could find.”

“Hey!” Kevin interrupts. “What the hell does that say about me?”

“It obviously skips a generation,” Linda says, eyeing Chuck critically. She’s the only one who hasn’t stood up at Chuck’s introduction.

“Anyways,” Dean says, “Guys, this is Chuck. Chuck, this is Your Once Biggest But Now Unimpressed Fan, Prophet 2.0, and Linda.”

“No nickname for me?” Linda asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No ma’am.”

She nods. “Good.”

“Alternatively,” Sam interrupts, “Charlie and Kevin.” At Linda’s look, he hastily adds, “And Linda. Again.”

“Hi,” Chuck says again, sounding very much like he wants a drink.

“Okay,” Charlie says, gesturing to the table they’d been sitting at. It’s been piled high with all the Supernatural books, organized into five separate stacks, “Let’s get this party started.”

***

Dean knows this conversation is more of a meeting of the minds of Charlie Bradbury and Chuck Shurley, but he can’t help but pick up a few things along the way.

For example, he’s learned that the books have been separated into seasons.

“Like tv shows?” he asks.

“Like tv shows,” Charlie confirms. “There’s over a hundred installments here, Dean. It’s pretty ridiculous. They had to categorize them somehow.”

“I can definitely see why they stopped publishing,” Chuck observes, and earns himself a glare from everyone but Sam and Dean.

Another example; Chuck really does know nothing.

“So you don’t know about the Campbells?” Charlie asks.

“You mean Mary’s family? From that one time travel one?”

“Well, first, there’s more than one time travel installment. But, yes. I’m talking about Samuel and Christian and Gwen, though. Any of those names ring a bell?”

Chuck shakes his head.

“I have no idea who they are.”

He also learns that in the last few weeks, when none of them have been paying strict enough attention, the rest of what Charlie calls ‘season six’ has been published, apparently ending right after Cas declares himself the new god. It’s not a comfortable topic for anyone, and they hastily move on.

“They haven’t been selling well at all,” Charlie tells them. She glances up at Sam and Dean. “Sorry. I guess averting the apocalypse just felt like the appropriate ending for a lot of fans.”

“Yeah, we’re really not complaining,” Dean says.

“Have you considered that it could be some really, ah, enthusiastic fans?” Chuck asks. “The Supernatural fanbase is pretty intense. It wouldn’t really be a surprise if they did something like this is.”

“That’s pretty illegal,” Sam chimes in, “All for a stupid book series.”

 Chuck shrugs. “I said they were enthusiastic.”

“There’s an easy way to answer this problem,” Charlie says pragmatically. She hands Dean, Sam, and Cas each a book. “Read.”

***

Years and years of research have allowed both Sam and Dean to acquire pretty excellent speed reading skills. They glance at the first and last chapters of each book, silently handing off various books to each other, depending on the content.

Sam doesn’t touch the first eleven, leaving Dean and Cas to go through them all.

Cas doesn’t initially touch The Man Who Would Be King, but when Dean picks it up instead, he makes a weird noise and snatches it out of his hands.

“I’ve got this one,” is all he says, his voice taking on some kind of weird, wobbly tone. Dean makes a mental note to pick it up later, curious as to why exactly Cas doesn’t want him reading it. The books are public domain, after all. Apparently they’re out there for anyone to read.

Dean reads the first page of Let it Bleed, and for some ridiculously masochistic reason, flips to the last couple paragraphs. His stomach turns over, and he puts the book down calmly. His head has started to pound again.

“You’re going to have to do this one, Sam,” he says mildly, “Although I’m pretty sure it’s damn accurate.”

Sam picks up the book and quickly speeds through a couple paragraphs.

“Oh,” he says, and Dean can feel Cas’ curious eyes on him. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s legit.”

It’s amazing how this whole process feels like one big game of truth or truth at an eighth grade sleepover. It’s like everyone’s airing some of their dirtiest laundry and then being forced to wear it.

Despite the fact that anyone can read these books anytime they want to, Dean’s glad everyone else gave them some space to work in private. Having to relive erasing Lisa’s and Ben’s memories isn’t exactly one of his crowning moments, and judging by the looks on Sam and Cas’ faces, neither of them are too proud of their actions in ‘season six’ either.

“You should go to bed, Dean,” Cas says quietly, coming to sit in the chair next to him. Their knees knock together. “You’re still hurting, I can tell.”

Dena laughs hollowly into his palms. “How do you know I’m not just burnt out from reliving all my greatest hits?” he asks sarcastically. “Season six was a good one for us, Cas. Golden, really.”

“Trust me,” Cas says, leaning forward an incremental amount, “I can empathize. My actions from that time aren’t exactly ones I’d care to revisit anytime soon either.”

Dean can see Sam pointedly ignoring them out of the corner of his eye.

“This is so fucked up,” he complains, “Most people get to move on. Somehow we’re stuck in this damn time loop. It’s like fucking quicksand, just sucking us in and pulling us down.”

It’s weird, but with the firsthand evidence sitting in front of Dean of all the shit Cas pulled back then, he can’t find it in himself to be angry. Maybe it’s just because they’re all stuck in this together, and once this horrible afternoon has faded from memory and they’ve burned all these fucking books he’ll go back to feeling that betrayal like a knife to the lung. Maybe dirty laundry, despite the amount or even quality, is a greater equalizer than Dean’s ever really given it credit for.

“I did so many awful things,” Cas says quietly. “And not just to win the war, but to _you_.”

Dean wants to shrug it off and say, _no worries, man, water under the bridge_ , but some deep dark instinct inside him compels him not to. Once the dust settles around this book thing, maybe they can start to properly talk about it, but if Dean pre-emptively closes this subject (as much as he may want to) then he’s cut off forever.

Instead, he manages a twitch of a smile and says, “We’ll get there, man. Just not yet.” He feels surprisingly mature for having said it. Just acknowledging that there’s still a problem makes him feel better.

It doesn’t really change who Cas is to him _now_ , all this stuff they’ve dredged up from the past. But he doesn’t want to let these things fester anymore. He’s been eaten at his whole life by things he never got to make peace with, and maybe he can break that cycle with Cas’ help.

Cas smiles at him sadly.

“You shouldn’t even let me in your home,” he admits softly, “Much less extend me the privilege of your friendship.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says on an exhale, “I don’t really think I had much of a choice on that one.” He stands up, clapping Cas on the shoulder. “Maybe I will hit the hay for a couple hours,” he says, and leaves the room.

***

“Sam,” Cas says after Dean has left, “I can’t imagine this has been easy for you either.”

“Ah,” Sam tries to sound good natured, but it’s hollow, even to his own ears, “I managed to bypass the worst of it, at least. The soulless bits.”

“I broke your wall,” Cas says matter of factly. “I failed to raise you properly from hell. Basically everything horrible that happened to you during that time was my fault.”

“Honestly?” Sam says, looking at Cas while Cas looks like he’d like nothing more than to be rolled off a cliff in a Persian rug, “I think I’m just more upset that it happened in the first place than I am angry at you, if that makes any sense.”

“I don’t think it does,” Cas confesses, “But please don’t try to absolve me of my actions. You need to know that I did was wrong.”

“Of course I know that,” Sam says, unable to keep a hint of frustration out of his voice. “It was more wrong than I could even comprehend, all the shit that went down back then. But what do you expect me to do about it? Be angry at you forever? Punch you in the face once a day?”

“That would be a start.”

“Look,” Sam says, “Stop punishing yourself. You may have broken my wall, but you also fixed me.”

“Far, far too late,” Cas says lowly, the self-loathing evident in every syllable.

“Cas, do you even realize how similar we are?” Sam asks, “Me and demon blood? Not exactly my finest moment. But at the time I thought I was doing the right thing. And I ended up letting Lucifer free.” His eyes soften. “You were trying to do the right thing, too.” He laughs, but there’s little humor in it. “Man, that road paved with good intentions is a tricky bastard to navigate, huh?”

The ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of Cas’ mouth.

“It definitely would have been easier with a map,” he agrees, and Sam nods.

“See? There you go,” After a moment, Sam’s expression turns serious again, “But you do need to know that this thing between you and Dean is a whole lot more complicated than the situation between you and me.”

Cas nods solemnly. “I think I do understand that, yes.”

“Because, Cas, with you and me it’s a hell of a lot more simple. You made a mistake. You fixed it. But with you and him, ah-” Sam crosses his arms awkwardly, “there’s, um, _feelings_ involved, I assume?” he ends with a question, giving Cas the courtesy to deny it if he wants, even though he wouldn’t buy it for a second.

Cas is silent for a moment, before he says, “It does feel more complicated with him, yes,” and Sam takes that admission for what it is.

“You’ll figure it out,” Sam assures him, “Maybe not for another ten years, but you’ll eventually figure it out.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Cas says. “Both your forgiveness and friendship mean a great deal to me.”

“Right back atcha,” Sam says, half laughing as he says it.

***

Charlie finds Chuck in one of the old filing rooms, drinking. She makes sure to bump into a stack of dusty files so that he knows she’s here.

“Hey,” she says, bending down next to where he’s sprawled out, propped up by a rotting wooden trunk. “The golden trio up there validated all the books. They’re one hundred percent Winchester.”

“You guys really could have done that part without me.”

“I know.” Charlie grimaces. “Changing course, though; Knee jerk reaction was to be a jerk back there. Sorry.”

“Naw,” Chuck makes a disinterested sound, “I’m not exactly an impressive prophet. I get it.”

Charlie raises a fake glass. “Here’s to being only a side character in the Winchester’s story, but the main character in our own.”

Chuck looks at her blankly, but takes a drink regardless. Charlie figures he doesn’t really need much of an excuse.

“The side characters always get it worse than them, anyways,” Chuck mourns, “I’m probably signing a death sentence just by being here.”

Charlie spreads her hands. “Not to jinx it or anything, but I’m gay _and_ a lady and I’ve survived this far.” She smiles, “Fingers crossed we get a more equitable set of deaths this season, huh?”

“I’m a white heterosexual male,” Chuck moans, “If we’re inverting tropes then I’m screwed.”

Charlie gently punches him in the arm, and properly sits herself on the floor. “Buck up, Chuck! We’ll get you back out to your hermit cave in no time. In fact, I come with questions that’ll hopefully expedite the process.” She pulls a book out, displaying it for Chuck to see. Lucifer Rising.

Chuck readies himself as Charlie flips to a page near the end of the book.

“It’s about this,” she says, pointing to a specific passage. “I don’t really know what your visions are like, but we- well, _I_ , since I haven’t really mentioned this to Sam or Dean yet- could use a little bit of intel.”

Chuck scratches at his beard, his natural disposition for nervousness shining bright and true.

“That was, um, yeah-” he admits, “I was a little confused by that.” He looks down and starts to read aloud from the book.

_There’s a sign that reads: St. Mary’s Convent- 2 miles. Ruby is waiting by the car impatiently, an understated energy coursing through her that manifests in the tightness of her jaw and the way she spins her knife between hands. Sam is further away, back turned to her, face pained._

_“Sam, it’s time,” she informs him, “Are we doing this or not?”_

_From the trunk of the car come the screams and thumps of desperate kicks. They’re muffled, but not enough that Sam can’t hear them. Not enough that he doesn’t have second, third, and fourth thoughts._

_“Give me a minute to think,” he says, and Ruby’s eyes flash, head lifting from her ministrations on the knife to focus on his back._

_“Sam,” she prompts._

_“Give me a damn minute, Ruby,” he snaps harshly over his shoulder._

_Ruby sighs, gaze dropping back to the knife again._

_“Better think fast,” she warns ominously._

_Sam’s face creases as he subtly pulls his cell out of his jacket pocket. The voicemail alert is still there, blinking away happily. He readies himself, and lifts it to his ear._

_The voice on the phone says, first unheard message, and then Dean’s voice fills his ear, harsh and low and like a kick in the gut._

_‘Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak. Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam -- a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back.’_

_Even the beep to signify the end of the message feels hostile._

_As Sam’s world is busy collapsing in on him, Ruby observes closely. With no one watching, she allows the quick upturn at the corner of her mouth, a tiny, knowing little smirk before dropping her gaze once more. She watches the knife twirl and twirl between her fingers, never once drawing blood. –_

“Stop,” Charlie says. “Right there. Ruby’s smirk. It’s been bothering me for ages.”

“I can’t tell you what it means,” Chuck says, “The visions don’t work like that. I only got the occasional glimpse into Sam or Dean’s thoughts.” He takes another drink. “It was just a lot of plot, y’know?” he half-pleads.

“I just-” Charlie plunks her chin into her palms, “It’s like Ruby _knew_ that voicemail was faked. Even if she could use super demon hearing or whatever, she wouldn’t have been able to tell the angels messed with it.”

“She could have just been glad Sam and Dean were still fighting,” Chuck offers, picking at a stray thread on the belt of his robe. “The longer they fought, the more time she had to work Sam over.”

“No,” Charlie disagrees, “Ruby knew them so well- _both_ of them. She had to have known they would have pulled it together in time to at least try and stop it, whether it was too late or not. She knew Dean wouldn’t ever say that to Sam.”

“Then you just answered your own question,” Chuck says. “Ruby knew Dean would never say it, she knew the angels were manipulating Dean like she was Sam, she put two and two together.”

“That’s not it,” Charlie insists. “You wrote, ‘knowing little smirk’. She had to have _known_.”

Chuck stares at her through a haze of alcohol.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” he asks, “You’re reading an awful lot into one line of dialogue from a sub-par writer.”

Charlie narrows her eyes at him. “Do you know how much meta I write?” she asks, “The Winchesters’ lives have always been a set of narrative with beginnings, middles, and ends.” She pauses for a moment. “Also lots of filler,” she adds, “But _mostly_ beginnings, middles, and ends. We’re looking at a fully structured story, here. Everything means something. Tropes are real in this world.”

“I think you’re giving too much credit to the author,” Chuck says.

“You don’t get it,” Charlie says, eyes gleaming, “When a work of fiction is put out there, it doesn’t just belong to the author anymore. Stories generate their own universes separate of the original work. Fandom really does have a mind of its own,” she says knowledgably. “Quote me on that.”

“There’s no way-” Chuck starts-  

“-that angels and demons have been working together since the start?” Charlie finishes for him. She smirks. “Trust me, Chuck. Where there’s a Winchester, there’s a way.”


	11. What I Want, You've Got

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title taken from 'you make my dreams come true' by hall & oates 
> 
> my intention while writing this fic was to make it 22/23 chapters aka like a full length season so that a chapter = an episode. obviously, that did not happen. however, i still wrote this chapter/episode with the mindset of making it my 'mid season finale', regardless of the fact that all the chapters get posted at the same time, and we're pretty far past the mid-point in the fic by now.
> 
> also, potential trigger-y things in this chapter: there is a fairly, um, intensive discussion of the crypt scene from 8.17.

When the doorbell rings the next morning, everyone is immediately wary.

“We haven’t had the best luck with doorbells,” Charlie informs the somewhat sympathetic Chuck.

“I know the feeling,” he agrees. “Not a big fan of doorbells myself.”

“But what are your feelings on severed heads?”

“Uh, middling,” Chuck says faintly.

“You should probably stay here then,” Charlie advises him, before hurrying out of the room to catch up with Sam, Dean, and Cas. She assumes Kevin has given Linda the same warning she just gave Chuck.

It’s not like she wants to see another severed head. She hangs back as they ready themselves on the opposite side of the door.

“You should really get a peephole,” she suggests. “Or at least chisel out a window or something.”

“You’d think a bestiary’s worth of warding would be security enough,” Sam grumbles, “Not quite, apparently.”

They pull open the door as a united front, and Charlie immediately assesses their expressions as ones of distaste, not disgust, so she chances coming forward to check it out.

On the doorstep stand two demons, eyes flicking to black and back.

“Well aren’t you two just the politest demons we’ve ever come across,” Dean simpers, knife out and glinting in the morning light. “Ringing the doorbell and waiting on the front mat and everything.” Everyone makes sure to stay beyond the threshold, behind the warding. “Are you here to sell us Girl Scout cookies made out of newborn babies?”

The demons exchange looks, before the one on the right- a smaller, blond woman-, says, “We’re emissaries.”

Dean barks out laughter.

“You’re here to deliver a message? From _who_?”

“The new queen of hell,” the other demon- a chubby, baby faced guy- informs them.

“The queen of hell?” Sam repeats, confused. Then, “What, you mean Abaddon?”

“Last time Abaddon delivered us a message it was a decapitated body at our door,” Dean says, “So how about we just return to sender?” He starts to shut the door, but the woman interrupts before he can.

“Wait!” she cries, attempting to take a step forward and bouncing off the warding. Dean smirks, but keeps the door open.

“Her majesty regrets her, uh, more aggressive tactics from a couple months ago,” The man says, almost apologetically. “In light of recent events, her long term goals have shifted, somewhat.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “ _What_ recent events?” he asks suspiciously. “What on earth would make Abaddon change her plans?”

“Information exchange is to be part of the transaction,” the woman says.

“Oh, it’s a transaction now, is it?” Dean crosses his arms. “What else is part of this supposed ‘transaction’?”

Cas hasn’t said a word so far, but he’s looking between the two demons and Charlie can almost feel him cataloguing at about a million miles a second.

“Abaddon guarantees both her and all of her subjects’ immediate withdrawal from earth for the foreseeable future while she consolidates power in hell. She has no interest in earth,” the woman says, back to being detached and professional. “She will answer whatever questions you have about recent events. All she asks in return is that you give her Crowley.”

A beat passes as everyone takes a moment to let it sink in. Dean looks like someone just slapped him across the face with a dead fish.

“Have you ever heard of the phrase ‘too good to be true’?” Dean asks them, “Because, fellas, I gotta tell ya. This stinks something fierce.”

“What could _possibly_ send Abaddon scurrying back into hell?” Cas asks, squinting.

“We’re not at liberty to say,” the man tells them, and Charlie almost rolls her eyes. “These matters will be discussed at the meeting.”

“Although you should know,” the woman adds on, “Abaddon isn’t in it just for the wanton destruction anymore. She legitimately wants to restore balance to hell.”

“Is that supposed to endear us to her or something?” Sam asks snidely.

“She’ll be a better leader than Crowley, both for your sakes and ours,” the woman says, “Whether you choose to realize it or not.”

“Right, right. Okay. When is this supposed meeting of goodwill?” Dean asks.

The man pulls a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it across the threshold to Dean.

“The location is on it,” he says. “It’s just outside of town. Somewhere private. Tomorrow night.”

Dean opens the paper, Sam reading over his shoulder. He huffs.

“I love abandoned factories,” he says sarcastically, “There’s definitely not a million potential ambush points in abandoned factories.”

“This is not a ruse,” the woman says, and finally, her eyes flash black in irritation, “Would we really be here, on the _Winchesters_ ’ doorstep, if it were? If this were under any other circumstances, we’d be ripping your hearts out of your chests right about now.”

The man makes a discontented noise in the back of his throat.

“You’d be trying and failing,” Dean corrects. “But I appreciate the sentiment.” He and Sam share a glance. “We’ll be there,” he says.

“Uh-“ the man starts awkwardly, “There’s actually one more term you need to fulfill for the meeting.”

“Fine print in a demon contract? Whoa, shocker.”

“The admission is for one Winchester only,” the man says, “Abaddon wants this to go as smoothly as possible, and she thinks it’ll be better for all involved if there’s only one of you.” He glances at Cas. “The angel counts as a Winchester, by the way.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” Dean says, “Either we all go or neither of us goes. Simple as that.”

“Abaddon has assured us that you’ll find a way to make it work,” the woman says.

“Yeah, only one of us goes and next thing we know he’s dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“If Abaddon wanted you both dead, she’d have invited both of you,” the woman says, “After all, she has two hands.”

“And no one wants a vengeful Winchester on their trail,” the man adds, earning a withering look from his partner.

“Gosh, guys, I dunno,” Dean says, “I love Girl Scout cookies and I love dead babies even more, but I think I’ll just have to pass this year.”

He closes the door in their faces.

“Taco Cabeza,” Charlie groans, and everyone looks at her. “Nobody ever gets shot at Taco Cabeza but you can bet your ass you’ll get shot in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town.”

“Charlie, what the fuck is a Taco Cabeza.”

“It’s from-”

“Dean,” Sam interrupts, “Maybe we should consider this.”

“What?” Dean squawks, “Sam, it’s the most obvious trap in the world.”

“Meet at the mall,” Charlie mutters, but no one hears her.

“Yeah, but maybe that’s why it’s not a trap.” Sam argues.

“No, they’re messing with us, Sam. They think we’ll think it’s not a trap because we’ll think it’s too obvious to be a trap. So it actually _is_ a trap.”

“ _What_?” Sam shakes his head wearily. “I don’t think demons play Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon,” Sam says doubtfully. “You weren’t there in the church, Dean. I heard her talking to Crowley. He even told her we were trying to close the gates of hell and she didn’t give a shit. She just wanted him out of the picture.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“Well then I guess I’m the one going to the meet tomorrow then.”

Dean scoffs.

“Uh, yeah fucking right, Sam. If anyone’s going to be this certifiably stupid, it’s going to be me.”

“I could do it,” Cas says.

“ _No_ ,” Dean and Sam snap at the same time. Dean turns to Cas, who’s just about to open his mouth to protest.

“Dude, before you get your panties in a bunch, it’s not even about the human thing. This isn’t your fight.”

“Perhaps then I could look at the situation more objectively than either of you.”

“Not gonna happen, Cas. You gotta let us handle this one.”

Cas sighs heavily, shoulders falling.

“If that’s the case,” he says forlornly, “Then I think Sam should go.”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” Dean hisses at them both, “ _I’m_ going.”

“No you’re not,” Sam says simply. “I am.”

“Do you have a death wish, Sam?”

“Do _you_?”

They bristle at each other for a moment, hackles raised, before Sam sighs and backs down.

“Look,” he says, more reasonable, “You obviously don’t buy their sales pitch. I don’t really, either, but I’m a hell of a lot more open to it than you are. No offense, Dean, but I’m better at keeping a level head than you are.”

“That’s complete bullshit,” Dean says, but Sam ignores him.

“If it’s not on the level, I’ll get out of there asap,” he assures Dean, “It’ll be fine.”

Dean spends the next fifteen seconds looking like he’s arguing furiously with himself, creased brows and jaw scrubbing and all.

“ _Fine_ ,” he finally concedes, “But I’m going with you for backup. I’ll keep my distance.”

“You can’t. They’ll be expecting it, and they’ll have eyes all over the place.”

“You can’t just expect me to let you go in there alone, Sam!” Dean argues, “You need _some_ kind of backup.”

“I know,” Sam admits, and as soon as Charlie catches him looking at her, she knows she’s just been recruited. “Abaddon only said one _Winchester_ was allowed. She never said anything about anyone else.”

***

Cas isn’t sure if he’s surprised or not when both Kevin and Linda agree to go as well, despite Dean’s heavy protests. He figures the chance for the Tran family to see the back of Crowley is probably going to be an extremely triumphant moment for them, even if they both discussed the merits of just sticking Ruby’s knife into his head themselves.

“Trust me,” Sam assures them as Dean pouts in the background, “Whatever Abaddon is going to do to him downstairs is a hundred times worse than what you guys could do to him.” He glances at Kevin, “You already had a good shot with him, too.”

“It’ll never be enough,” Kevin says, and Sam’s eyes go soft.

“I know,” he says.

“We just need to make sure he’s gone for good,” Linda says, “Can we trust that this Abaddon will take care of him for us?”

“I’m sure she’ll go above and beyond taking care of him,” Sam confirms. “Not only that, but she’s taking herself out of the running as well. That clears us up to go find Metatron.”

“Which is just _super_ convenient for us,” Dean adds on sardonically, “Because our lives are always this easy and wrap up with a little bow.”

“Whatever has Abaddon so spooked sounds like it’s connected to something going on up here,” Cas says, “So I’d say it’s less of things wrapping up ‘with a little bow’ and more cause and effect. Abaddon is saving herself.”

“Last time we met her,” Charlie says, “She did seem to know something was up. She seemed way more confident back then, though.”

“I assume something has changed between then and now,” Cas guesses, “Something big enough to scare her into hiding.”

“How could we not notice something that big, though?” Dean asks, “I mean, there’s been a lot of crap going on, but no one event big enough to trigger a tuck tail and run from a friggin’ Knight of hell.”

“Hopefully that’s one of the questions Abaddon will feel like answering tomorrow night,” Sam says grimly.

***

Kevin and Linda insist on being there when they break the news to Crowley the next evening.

Suffice to say, he doesn’t take it well.

“You’re using me as a _bargaining chip_?” he practically spits, “After all that I’ve done for you?”

“Do you really want to play that game, Crowley?” Dean asks dangerously, “Especially with these two in the room,” he jerks his head in the direction of Kevin and Linda, both staring stonefaced at him.

“Do _I_ want to play this game?” he asks, affronted, “Do _you_?” he leans forward and lowers his voice, “Do you have any idea of what that little minger did to me?”

Dean shakes his head and straightens up, vindictive smile on his face.

“Nope,” he says, “And I don’t care, honestly. I just hope it really hurt.”

Crowley’s arms shoot out, only to be caught by the chains around his wrists.

“I told you where to find her,” he snarls, “I gave you her _exact_ location.”

“After keeping her captive for over a year,” Kevin butts in shrilly, “And even then I had to twist it out of you, you fucking scrotum.”

“Same end result,” Crowley argues, “We’re all safe and sound now, right? Can’t we all just get along?”

Linda strides purposefully forward and punches him in the face hard enough that the ensuing smack reverberates through the room. Dean feels his own jaw tickle in response.

“I’m not going to do you the courtesy of giving you a speech,” she says, “Lord knows you like the sound of your own voice well enough. Just know that if this Abaddon shares even a _pinprick_ of the contempt I hold for you, the only thing I’ll regret is that I’m not there to watch what she does to you.”

She steps back and Kevin steps forward, jaw quivering. He and Crowley just stare at each other for a moment, and then Kevin spits in his face.

“Fuck you,” he says. He turns on his heel and leaves the room, Linda right behind him. 

When they hear the distant closing of a door, Crowley turns to appeal to Dean.

“Can you believe it?” he asks, like a chump. “Some people can’t just let bygones be bygones, you know? I mean, me and you, Dean, we’ve known each other for years. Practically chums, am I right?”

“Oh, yeah, _totally_ ,” Dean assures him, moving forward, “I actually meant to bring the friendship bracelets down with me but I haven’t finished braiding them yet.” He skews his face separate ways as he unlocks one of Crowley’s cuffs to slide it through the steel loop on the table, reattaching it as soon as he drags it all the way through. His voice drops to a more sinister tone, “But if I put these cuffs on tight enough they’ll leave a nice little indent and that’s kind of the same thing, right?” He scrapes his shoe against the floor, effectively breaking the devil’s trap.

“Always with the sweet talk, huh Squirrel?” Crowley asks, but his usual snark isn’t in it and Dean takes it as the first sign of him accepting his fate.

“Time to go, grumpypants,” Dean announces, grabbing Crowley by the scruff of the neck and pushing him forwards. “Oh, and-” He tosses a warded plastic bag over Crowley’s head and makes sure to tie the handles just this side of tight around the back of his head. 

“I’d poke holes in it,” Dean says, “But I don’t care. I’d double up on the bags, put another one over that for security purposes, but something tells me we won’t need to bother much with security once Abaddon gets her hands on you. Also,” he adds, pulling Ruby’s knife out and holding it to Crowley’s back, “I don’t care. You’ve been a thorn in our side for a long time, dickbag. It’s almost too bad you’re going to die offscreen. Not as cathartic that way.”

“I may be exiting your particular bubble, Winchester, but, darling, don’t think the world’s getting rid of me that easily.” Crowley’s threats aren’t exactly ball tightening when muffled by a Save-More bag.

“Nope. No evil villain monologue. Not interested,” Dean puts his foot down as they walk upstairs. He can feel Crowley searching for weaknesses in their new mobile situation, but Dean knows there’s not going to be a last minute escape. Not this time. Cas himself drew up the sigil on the bag. (He questioned the face covering method chosen, but Dean’s not above humiliating Crowley during his last hours on earth.)

Dean pushes him into the library, where everyone is waiting.

“Oh, a sit in for little old me?” Crowley asks, the bag having twisted enough that one eye can look through the space between the handle, bringing his hand to his heart. His chains jingle merrily. “Protesting my untimely demise? How humbling.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, hardly,” he says, and sticks a needle into Crowley’s neck, injecting him with a thick, red substance.

“What’s that?” Charlie asks from where she’s standing off to the side, away from everyone else. She had told Dean earlier she felt kind of weird being here for this, since Crowley was never really her ‘arch nemesis’. Dean had rolled his eyes and reminded her people in real life don’t have arch nemeses, but Charlie had just arched an eyebrow of her own and claimed they were hardly living in the real world anymore.

“Human blood,” Sam says, dropping the needle back onto the table. “Specifically, _my_ blood.”

Crowley smacks his lips through the bag.

“Have you eaten pineapple recently?” he asks.

“Shut the hell up,” Dean says, tightening his grip on Crowley’s neck.

“But why?” Charlie asks.

“This whole bunker is warded against demons,” Sam says, “The only way we got Crowley in here in the first place was because he was so hopped up on my blood from the third trial the wards didn’t even recognize him.”

“Sounds like a pretty flawed system to me,” Crowley mutters, and Dean hamstrings him.

“ _Bugger_ ,” he spits, but no one responds as he hobbles on one leg.

“So it’s the only way we can get him out,” Sam finishes.

“Makes enough sense,” Charlie acquiesces.

“You know what doesn’t make sense?” Crowley asks, the part of the bag that’s covering his mouth puffing in and out with every word he speaks, “I had such _potential_ for this season,” he starts listing suggested character arcs on his fingers, “One, injected with human blood. Who knows what effects that would have, long term? Two, Redeemed villain. I mean, I _did_ save mama Tran, here. Three, I’m your _go to_ guy. I’m your man in the know. Dare I say,” he says, voice taking on a dangerous tone, “I’m the new Bobby?”

It literally takes everything in Dean in that moment not to shove Ruby’s blade into the smarmy fucker’s back right to the hilt, but to his surprise, it’s actually Cas who takes initiative. He steps forward from his place beside Sam, face storming.

“That name is not yours to speak,” Cas hisses.

“Oh, dear,” Crowley simpers through the bag, “Did I hit a sore spot? Have you realized yet that dearest Bobby never would have died if you hadn’t reneged on our deal way back when and eaten up all those souls like the hungry little caterpillar you are?”

Now that Cas is confined to a human body, Dean can telegraph his moves way easier. Luckily, that’s what gets him to stop Cas before he turns Crowley into his next punching bag.

“Dude, hey, _Cas_ ,” he snaps, trying to calm swinging limbs as Sam rushes forward to take Dean’s place as Crowley’s handler. “We need him in one piece for Abaddon.”

“He-” Cas begins, eyes wild, seemingly so angry (chastised?) that he chokes on his words.

Dean puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I get it,” he says quietly, “ _Trust me_ , I get it. But you got to chill.”

Cas shakes him off, but Dean thinks he’s angrier at himself right now than he is anyone else in the room.

“I have time to atone for my actions,” Cas informs Crowley, voice strung tight like a drum string, “And I will,” he vows, first looking at Sam, and then Dean. “But you’re finished, Crowley. Your time is up.”

Crowley makes a noise of displeasure.

“So _trite_ , Cas,” he drawls condescendingly, “So _cliché_.” He points in the general direction Cas’ voice was coming from, and moves his head like he’s appealing to everyone in the room. “Are you sure you want him around instead of me? I’m all wit as opposed to Steve Wet Rag over here.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Okay, enough with the drawn out farewell.” He looks to Sam, “You ready to go?”

Sam nods. “Bags are in the car already.”

 “And the rest of you?” Dean asks, looking from Charlie, to Kevin, to Linda, “You’re all _sure_ about this?”

“Hell yeah,” Charlie says. She looks at her three partners. “Charlie’s Angels, am I right?”

Kevin looks like he wants to say something, but no one else laughs. Charlie purses her lips. “Okay, tough crowd.”

“We’re ready,” Linda says. “Scouring the earth of this scum is going to be my Christmas present to myself this year.”

“That hurts,” Crowley says, offended. “We had such good times together, Linda.”

“Jesus,” Dean says, “Get him out of here,” he tells Sam. “Stick his ass in the truck and make sure the devil’s trap is still engraved all the way around.”

Sam half hauls, half carries Crowley up the stairs.

“You three,” Dean says to Charlie, Kevin, and Linda, “Be careful, okay?”

“No, we were thinking of going in, guns blazing and hands down our pants,” Kevin says. “But thanks for clearing that up.”

Dean puts a hand to his temples, aggravated.

“This is serious, Kevin,” he says. “Abaddon is serious business.”

“Dean,” Charlie says softly, “We got this. We got Sam’s back, we’ve got each other’s backs. We’ll be fine.”

“I’m taking that as a promise,” Dean says, and because he can’t help himself, he repeats his earlier, completely unhelpful warning. “Be careful.”

They file out of the bunker, and Dean feels his stomach twisting. This is so wrong. He should be there instead of them. They should have said _fuck it_ to Abaddon’s rules and gone in, him and Sam and maybe Cas. Kevin is a fucking kid. Linda was just help captive for over a year. Charlie still thinks this whole thing is ‘cool’.

“Oh, god,” he says after the door has closed behind them, “This is so fucked up. This is _so_ fucked up.”

A hand falls to his shoulder, and he turns around to see Cas, eyes sympathetic.

“Are you going to tell me to ‘chill’?” Dean can’t help but ask sardonically.

“No,” Cas says simply.

Dean expects him to say more, but he doesn’t. Instead of shaking off the touch, he finds himself leaning into it.

***

They drive for about an hour, and arrive at the warehouse at the designated time. They’re all weighted down with holy water in various pockets, and a weapon each; Dean leant his Colt 1911 to Charlie, and Sam figures it speaks to the seriousness of the situation that all he said was, “watch the kickback.” Linda has a stocky two barrel shotgun at her hip full of rocksalt, and Kevin is armed with one of the multiple angel blades the Winchesters now have hanging around the bunker.

Sam has Ruby’s knife tucked into his thigh holster. He figures it’s better to show their cards as soon as possible, so Abaddon doesn’t get the chance to accuse them of sneaking anything in later if she decides to just rip them all apart because the conversation isn’t going how she likes and she’s looking for an excuse. Not that Abaddon ever needs an excuse.

Crowley was surprisingly quiet on the way over here, and when Sam opens the trunk, he can see why. Crowley’s face has gone an unattractive puce color, and Sam can see beads of sweat forming at his temples. He smirks.

“Contemplating the next miserable century of your life?” Sam asks, and then reaches in roughly to drag him out of the trunk.

“You could be _delicate_ ,” Crowley snaps as Sam rips open the bag finally, leaving him with a necklace of old grocery bag. “Since this is apparently my funeral suit as well. Watch the creases.”

“I’ll be sure to be careful,” Sam assures him, “So _incredibly_ careful,” he says through gritted teeth, making sure to grab a large handful of the back of his suit jacket. “Move.”

Behind him, he hears Charlie start to speak.

“This is murder,” she says, though she doesn’t sound horribly put out by it.

Linda narrows her eyes at Crowley’s back.

“No,” she says, “It’s not.”

***

Dean left the room fairly quickly after everyone left, and Cas has found himself wandering aimlessly around the bunker. After about half an hour of doing nothing, he finally gives in and goes to search out Dean.

It doesn’t take him long. Dean’s room has become his respite in times of distress. He’s endearingly predictable that way. Dean’s door is closed over, but not closed, and Cas can see the light from the lamp on his bedside table seeping through the cracks in the door.

He knocks.

“Dean?” he asks.

No answer.

“Dean,” he says again, “Are you in there?”

Again, no answer.

Not wanting to interrupt him if he is in there, but needing to make sure everything is okay, Cas gently pushes the door open. Dean is sitting on the edge of his bed, silhouetted by the lamplight. He’s staring at a book in his lap, his posture incredibly stiff and his face seemingly frozen in an unreadable expression. He looks like a statue. The light is playing strangely on his face, shadows in places Cas isn’t used to seeing them.

“Dean?” he repeats, voice hushed, taking a step closer.

He can see Dean swallow from here, his Adam’s apple bobbing severely in his otherwise still form.

“I didn’t realize you got one,” is the first thing he says, trying to keep his voice neutral, but Cas can already hear the fissures, like a crack in a pane of glass spiderwebbing. He lifts his head, but he stares hard at the wall straight in front of him. “I guess it would make sense though, huh?”

Cas thinks he knows what Dean has in his lap, and he immediately feels his insides turn cold. “Dean, what are you-”

“I gotta admit,” Dean says, his voice continuing to sound unbearably strange, like there’s a hurricane inside him and he’s afraid to ask for any help, “When I picked it up to distract myself, I wasn’t expecting…” He laughs lowly, dry as the desert, but there’s zero traces of humor in it and Cas thinks it’s the worst sound he’s ever heard, “I don’t know what I was expecting, honestly. I just figured- hey, it’s our story, I already know it anyway. What else could possibly…” he trails off again. “Just figured Chuck insulted my car or something and you wanted to-” and here his voice really starts to crack, “- protect me or-” his face finally changes expressions, and it’s so pained that Cas feels his own chest clench up in response, “I don’t know,” he whispers. “I don’t know anything.”

“Dean, I can explain,” Cas says, hearing the panic in his voice because he can’t, not really. He doesn’t even know _what_ he would have to explain.

Something in what Cas just said must have triggered something in Dean, because it’s like every ounce of tension leaves his body, and he sags, boneless. He tosses The Man Who Would Be King somewhere off into the corner of the room where it lands with a soft splat of pages, and drops his head into his hands.

“You watched me rake _leaves_ ,” he mutters into his palms, and Cas’ throat tightens up.

***

Abaddon is late.

It’s an hour past the meet time and what feels like a whole lot longer of Crowley complaining about his leg when she finally shows up, not a hair out of place.

To Sam’s immense surprise, she’s alone.

“New faces,” is the first thing she says, eyes locked on Sam. “But only one Winchester. Good boys.” She smirks, “I enjoy doing business like this when I get to make the rules.”

“You’re late,” Sam says flatly.

“Little old me?” Abaddon asks, fluttering her eyelashes and feigning ignorance, “I can’t _imagine_. You must have just been early,” she corrects, sickly sweet. Sam’s not sure if it comes from possessing a woman from the mid-century or not, but the fluidity with which she transforms from a doe-eyed smile into a leering viper makes his stomach churn. “But if I were to lend any credence at all to that theory, I’d say it was because my men and I just spent the last hour sweeping the surrounding area to make sure there are no surprises for us out there.” She smiles. “There weren’t. Another point for you.” Her eyes fall to Crowley. “And you brought me the former king of hell with a shopping bag as his collar! Hell, take double points for that one.”

Sam swallows hard.

“Information,” he says. “We were told you would answer our questions.”

Abaddon tilts her head to the side.

“Actually,” she says, “I believe the term used was ‘information exchange’.” She scoffs, “And even that was inaccurate because _you_ can’t possible tell _me_ anything I don’t already know!” She claps her hands, “Wow, are you guys getting a great deal tonight or _what_.”

“Nah,” Sam shakes his head, feeling a slow smile creep onto his face along with his surety, “You’re definitely running. From something bigger. I can tell.”

“I prefer to think of the strategy as ‘staying alive’,” Abaddon says, face scrunched in false sympathy. “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for you.”

“Okay,” Sam says, “Then please, enlighten us. What the hell is going on?”

Crowley opens his mouth to say something, probably sarcastic, when Abaddon waves her hand and nothing but a barely-there rasping sound comes out, like a garbage bag full of freshly mowed glass being dragged over the lawn that was just cut.

“The big people are talking,” Abaddon says to him sweetly. “You’ll have your time to scream, darling. No worries.”

***

“You read the whole thing?” Cas asks quietly. He’s still standing awkwardly between Dean’s bed and the door, painfully uncertain of where this is going.

“Speed reader, right?” Dean jokes, less than half-heartedly. “No, I uh,” he says, much more sincerely, “I wanted to know.”

Cas is caught in an in between state, somehow feeling like he’s moving and not moving all at once. He’s _thrumming_ , the blood pumping in his ears and prickles running up and down his arms and back like he has the chills. It’s not the most apt metaphor, but he wonders if this is what a child feels like when they get caught with their hand stuck in the proverbial cookie jar.

“I haven’t even read the entire thing,” Cas admits, “I’m sure Chuck took some liberties-” but Dean’s shaking his head before he can even finish.

“Not with this one,” he says, “This one wasn’t a fuckin’ caricature, Cas. I mean, hey, read it yourself and correct me if I’m wrong but that whole thing, from start to finish, was so damn _you_ it was like you were in the room with me.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.”

Something ripples through Dean, whether it be a laugh or a choked back sob Cas isn’t sure.

“I don’t think it matters,” Dean says honestly, “It was just genuinely _you_ from a time that you… weren’t.” He swallows. “I think that’s… really important.”

“Dean,” Cas begins, “What I said to Crowley earlier… I hope you know that I could never ever make up for what I’ve done to everyone. To the world, to Bobby, to Sam,” there’s something in his throat, and he works to clear it, because he knows- has known, for a while, he suspects, even if he didn’t want to admit it to himself- why Dean is the last on this list, “to _you_.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean seems to have stopped trying for false levity, “We all do shit we’re not proud of.”

“My intentions were good,” Cas’ll allow himself that, at least, “But everything else crumbled around me. Including our relationship.”

“We never really got the chance to work things out, did we?” Dean realizes sadly, bitterness obvious in his tone, “Because, I mean, you kind of up and died for a while there. And then you were Emmanuel. And then you saved Sam, and then there was Dick Roman and Purgatory and Naomi and the tablets and just- wow. Basically a neverending list of why it’s never worked, huh?”

“‘Plot’, as Charlie would call it, has kept many things from not working, yes,” Cas acknowledges. “From what I’ve gathered from the shows we’ve been watching, that’s a fairly common occurrence.”

“Star crossed lovers,” Dean confirms like it’s the most obvious thing in the universe, and when he realizes what he’s just said, he immediately stiffens. “Is, a, um… example…” he mutters, red faced.

Cas lets it pass, but he’s not unaware of the connotations. His nervous system seems to be working overtime.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Cas says, lost, and he thinks this may be the thing he hates the _most_ about falling. He had his limitations as an angel, but there were so many more options, so many more avenues to pursue.  As this, he’s limited in the search for solutions.

Then again, his downfall the last time was bolstered by the fact that he refused to ask for help.

And now, he looks in front of him and he sees someone who looks like they _want_ to help.  

“I don’t either,” Dean says, “But we’re both still here.”

“Yes,” Cas says, feeling something absurd bloom in his chest, “I think that’s really important.”

***

“You’ve been to hell before, boy king,” Abaddon says, and the long lost title has Sam lost in a whirlwind for a moment before he manages to pull himself back, “But I assume you were too busy being tortured by Michael and Lucifer to realize what had happened.”

“And what was that?” Sam asks. He can practically feel Linda, Kevin, and Charlie all staring at him. They know the stories- Linda not so much, but Kevin’s been filling her in- but Sam can only imagine how it sounds coming out of the mouth of a Knight of hell.

Abaddon laughs, seeming genuinely amused by his question.

“That’s it,” she says, unbelievingly, “ _That_ , right there, is why we’re all in this mess in the first place. Your sniveling _ignorance_.”

“What are you talking about?” Sam snaps, “We beat Michael and Lucifer. We saved the whole friggin’ world.”

Abaddon shakes her head, eyes wide and snorting laughter as if she still can’t wrap her head around it.

“So blind,” she mutters to herself, before meeting Sam’s gaze again, “You really thought you could just, what, circumvent _thousands_ of years of buildup and forced coincidence and fate just because you ‘wuved your bwother’ so much?” She starts pacing now, heels clicking against the cracked cement like a metronome. “You’re children,” she says. “Ignorant, badly behaved children who don’t stop to consider the consequences of their actions.”

“I’m sorry,” Charlie butts in, “But is a Knight of hell really going to lecture someone on consequences?”

“Yes, actually,” Abaddon snarls, glaring at Charlie, who immediately backs off. “Things can be changed,” she allows, “But not this much.” She stops pacing, and glares Sam dead in the eye. “You’ve been fighting with heaven and hell since you were born, your destinies going back further than most sentient life forms, and yet you know so little about them. You have no idea how they work, how they operate. But you _tinker_ , regardless.” She sniffs, “Tell me, boy. Would you enter CERN right now and start telling the scientists how to do their jobs?”

“Uh, no.”

“Why not?”

Sam’s brow creases.

“Because I’m not a scientist,” he says flatly, and then, frustrated, “Just _what_ does this have to do with what’s going on? I can’t imagine you want to play twenty fucking questions with me anymore than I do with you.”

“You wanted answers,” Abaddon snaps, “I’m giving you answers. I’ve been advised keeping my promises is a good political move.”

Sam sees Crowley rolls his eyes in his peripheral vision.

“Well get to the point, then,” Sam says.

“Fine,” Abaddon says, “Let’s talk about consequences.”

***

“I think-”

Dean interrupts him.

“C’mere,” he says, and he doesn’t indicate where or what ‘c’mere’ is, so Cas just stiffly sits on the very edge of Dean’s bed, about two feet of space between them.

“I think,” he starts again, “That I’ve been so worried about your head wound because I feel… guilt. For many things I’ve done to you.”

“What, you mean ‘season six’? Dean fingerquotes.

“Perhaps,” Cas says, “But, Dean, I think it’s about more than that.”

“Then what’s it about?” Dean asks, voice suddenly unsure like he doesn’t want to know.

“You were hurt,” Cas says, “I watched that demon punch you so many times and I thought- well, I couldn’t really think at the time. And then they threw you into the Impala and you had been healing, and then they just made it _worse_.”

Dean nods slowly, but Cas doesn’t think he’s following him. Or maybe he doesn’t want to. “Okay,” he allows. Then, “perks of the hunting gig, Cas. We’ve talked about this.”

“No, that part I understand,” Cas says surely. “No, what I’m getting at, Dean-” and here again, his chest is constricting and he feels bile rising in his throat, like he’ll be spitting acid if he speaks. An overwhelming feeling of nausea overcomes him, and he immediately brings both hands to his stomach.

Dean’s eyes go wide, and he slides closer to Cas, looking like he’s about to reach out to him. Cas shakes his head.

“I’m fine,” he wheezes, “I just need to get this out.” He takes a moment to breathe deeply, trying to calm the riot of both his mind and body. “What those demons did to you,” Cas finally manages, and it hurts him so much to say it, but he thinks it would hurt both of them more if he never said it, “ _I_ did to you, Dean,” and his voice breaks and he’s suddenly so angry at himself, and it’s like he’s being swept away by his own emotions, but this isn’t about _him_. This about what he did to someone else, to _Dean_.

He puts both hands on Dean’s chest, worried that Dean will try to make this all about Cas, when it absolutely can’t be.

Dean is looking at him, eyes somehow liquid and guarded at the same time. The muscle in his jaw is flexing.

“When you were going to say yes to Michael,” Cas whispers, and it was so unfair, because even though he was depowered, he was still so much stronger, and Dean was weak and human and he _still_ -

 “And in the crypt,” he confesses, voice brittle, and he still dreams about Dean’s bloodied face sometimes, but in his dreams he doesn’t get the chance to break free. Before Dean can snap him out of it, his mouth has filled with blood and he’s choking on it and Cas just keeps going, keeps hitting and hitting and-

Cas can tell by Dean’s skeptical expression that he’s going to try to deflect this conversation to anywhere but here, and in a desperate attempt to acknowledge it, Cas reaches out and lays a palm on Dean’s cheek- on the same side as the crypt- and Dean flinches away, and he looks at Cas like Cas has just betrayed him.

“I wasn’t trying to protect you from them,” Cas says, and he thinks he now understands what people mean when they say they feel their heart breaking, “I was trying to protect you from myself.”

***

“First,” Abaddon says, holding up her index finger, “You need to understand that heaven and hell are not separate dimensions.” She cocks her head to the side for a moment, “Lucifer fell. Created demons. Created hell. But he was still an angel. Even fallen, angels can still be connected to the host, tenuous and unpredictable as it may be.”

Sam’s thoughts immediately stray to Cas, but he focuses again right away, the train of thought disappearing like a puff of smoke.

“It’s important to note,” she adds, “That before Lucifer fell, there was no hell. So, if we do some basic math, that means that hell and heaven are connected. If it makes you feel better, let’s say they’ve both rented office space in the same building, but on different floors. And then we’ll add in you and your brother, and let’s say you two are, I don’t know, psychotic pyromaniacs or something. You try to blow up the building, but since you’re idiots, you don’t realize just how firmly the foundations of the building are stuck in the ground. So, what do you end up achieving, really?” she asks, and puts her index finger to her chin. “Well, due to the force of the blast, some things from the bottom floor rocketed skywards. Some debris fell all the way to the bottom. But a whole lot of that stuff that got shaken out?” she asks, “Where, exactly, do you think it ended up?”

As soon as Sam realizes where she’s going with this, he feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.

“Earth,” he chokes out.

“Not just earth,” Abaddon shakes her head. “Purgatory too.” She sneers, “You think there was a doorway from Purgatory to hell before you idiots got your hands into the pile? I don’t think so. That would be pretty redundant, wouldn’t it? No,” her lips thin out into a straight line, “Your royal fuck up didn’t just shake debris lose, it _created_ doorways. Between heaven, hell, purgatory, earth, yes. But those aren’t the only dimensions that exist. When you did what you so heroically call, ‘saving the friggin’ world’, I call dooming it. But hey,” she throws up both hands, “Not my world, so I don’t care.” She takes a step forward, and Sam’s heart rate immediately climbs. “You should know,” she says, “I had an ulterior motive in calling you here tonight.”

“Surprise,” Sam says flatly, even though is mind is whirring at about a million miles a minute.

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll mind this one,” Abaddon says, “It’s a lot closer to ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ bullshit that you Winchesters seem so intent on both condemning and embracing at the same time. I just need you to fix what you broke. Namely, the world. Again.”

“Why would you care about that?” Sam asks, “If you’re just going to spend the next millennium in hell?”

“To fix earth,” Abaddon says slowly, “You need to fix everything. Including the doorways that have opened into hell from other, less favorable dimensions,” as she says this, it suddenly occurs to Sam that there’s an actual Caste system in place on a universe wide scale, and it doubly occurs to him that there are apparently creatures lower in this system than whatever and whoever manages to find their way into hell.

Sam barely represses a shudder.

“You see my point,” Abaddon says smoothly, “And you know what?” she offers, “I won’t even try to kill you if you decide you need to shut the gates of hell to fix all this. Should we ever decide to venture topside again, well-” she smiles, and it’s frighteningly genuine, “I love a challenge.”

Sam swallows hard.

“So is this our deal?” he asks, “You and the rest of your minions or whatever slither back into hell for the foreseeable future, and we just walk away and fix a problem we were already trying to fix?”

“Pretty sweet deal, huh? And to boot, you’re now armed with the knowledge to actually start working on a gameplan.”

Sam shakes his head slowly, “But what are we even supposed to _do_ about it?” he asks, “How would we even know where to start?”

Abaddon shrugs.

“That I can’t tell you,” she says, “Because you’re looking in the wrong place. You need to be aiming higher.” She glances upwards. “I told you hell was just a subset,” she explains, “It’s not like I’m _pleased_ by that fact.”

“And you have nothing more to give us than that?” Sam asks, “You just said it yourself, heaven is huge.”

“I just gave you an entire _act’s_ worth of exposition,” Abaddon snaps, “When I should have been breaking your necks, so I’d expect some gratitude, not petulance.” She waves a hand, annoyed, “Ask your pet angel or something. Ask _any_ angel for all I care, it’s not like there aren’t enough around at the moment.” Her annoyance filters out into a predatory smile. “Speaking of pets,” she says, eyes finally sliding to Crowley’s, “I believe you are now in possession of something of mine.”

Sam shoves Crowley forward, and he stumbles, smashing his face into the concrete.

“Oh, sunshine,” Abaddon coos, “Don’t start without me, now.” She leans down to pick Crowley up by the plastic bag around his neck. Sam can see it starting to strain as she lifts him off the ground. She spares their group one last look.

“You’re never going to see me again,” she informs them, and, inclining her head towards Crowley, “Or him.” Crowley somehow still has the nerve to look at them all with big, betrayed eyes. “But you should know that if you don’t wrap all this up in a timely manner, I won’t even need to have to send someone to kill you. All the crap that’s going to come pouring through those doors is going to be enough to do it in a heartbeat. So-” she smiles one last, big toothy smile, “Chop chop.”

And disappears.

***

Dean doesn’t know what to do with this.

Cas is sitting two fucking inches away from him and refuses to touch him, but when he did actually touch him, Dean had the biggest kneejerk reaction in his long history of kneejerk reactions and pulled away. Like his fucking feelings were hurt over a couple of cuts and bruises or something.

“Cas,” he pleads, and he doesn’t even know what he’s pleading _for_ , just that it’s for something. The nightmares he has about that night in the crypt bump gently and vaguely against his consciousness. “It wasn’t even you. I know that.”

“It was still these hands that hurt you,” Cas says somberly, “It was still this face you had to look at.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Dean snaps, and this sudden aggression he’s feeling is seemingly out of nowhere, although Cas doesn’t seem surprised by it, “I know it wasn’t you, okay? I can fucking compartmentalize. I knew that I wasn’t _actually_ being beaten half to shit by the person I-” he stops, changes course, restarts. “I can tell, okay?” he argues. He wonders if this is actually an argument about getting Cas to touch him, and continuing to touch him. It sounds really strange, even in his head. Usually his stupid ideas don’t sound that stupid until he says them out loud, but this one has persevered.

“You flinched away, Dean,” Cas says, quietly matter of fact, “You’re not okay.”

Dean stands up, “I’m only ‘not okay’ because you keep bringing it up,” he almost shouts, “Just _leave it_ , Cas.”

It doesn’t matter that he’s currently feeling a panic creep up his spine. It doesn’t matter that he feels like he’s not getting enough air. If Cas would just— _listen_ to him. If Cas would just ignore it, or him, or both of them, he doesn’t know. If Cas would just.

“How did you describe me, once?” Cas asks, as Dean stands there, chest heaving, “I believe the term was, ‘overcompensation city’.”

Dean looks away.

“Don’t fucking do that,” he says, “Don’t try and turn this around on me.”

“That’s the point, Dean, it should be about y-”

Dean whirls around.

“You’re a fucking human now!” he’s yelling fully this time, voice loud enough that Cas’ eyes visibly widen, “Or something that’s not an angel anymore, because a couple weeks ago you described yourself as, ‘what I actually am’.” He’s glaring down at Cas now, fire in his eyes, “Like that’s not some fucked up shit you have to deal with, Cas. A fucking species change, I mean come _on_. Are you human? Angel? A fucking centaur? Figure it out,” he spits, and this is all so, _so_ incredibly irrational. Why is he turning this around on Cas? Why is he being the biggest dick in the world about it? What is his _problem_?

There’s a horrible pocket of silence after he’s finished yelling, and Cas just stares at him like he understands.

Dean isn’t sure why he crumples back onto the bed, but he does. His anger was a flashflood, and now it’s just draining away, tree branches and cars just lazily drifting by on the currents.

“We’re both so fucked up,” he says, “and not even just, like, singularly fucked up. But like, double fucked up. As in I’m fucked, you’re separately fucked, and then together it’s a whole other realm of fucked. As a unit we’re just...” He trails off, looking for a phrase.

“’Fucked up?’” Cas supplies, and Dean nods, shooting Cas an apologetic glance.

“Yeah,” he says, and it tastes bittersweet on his tongue. He turns his head to meet Cas’ eyes. “I don’t know anything,” he admits, and he doesn’t even realize he’s echoing Cas’ words from earlier, “I don’t know if the fucking sun is going rise tomorrow or if Sam’s going to slit his wrists in the bathroom the next chance he gets.” His voice cracks, “I feel so _alone_ all the time, and I think… I think,” he struggles with the words, like he’s always struggled with the ones that really matter. He didn’t even realize he was on this slippery slope until he had reached full velocity, and by then, it was too late to even bother trying to change course. The ground is coming up to meet him fast and he figures, why the hell not meet it halfway.

“I think I need to know how you really feel,” Dean says, and he’s fairly sure words have never sounded this strange and garbled coming out of his mouth. If he weren’t so terrified and sad and weirdly content right now, he would probably laugh, because this is some scripted shit if he’s ever seen it, and he’s just failing epically on his line delivery. “Cas,” he murmurs, and they’re both leaning in now, their foreheads gently bumping together. They stay like that for a moment, just breathing. Cas’ eyes are dark in the shadows as he looks up at Dean, mournful.

“Please,” Dean says quietly, as he takes Cas’ hand in his own and guides it to his cheek. “Please,” he whispers, and when he lets go, Cas’ hand stays put, cupping his face like Dean is something precious. Nothing like the crypt. Never again like the crypt.

They fall together after that, and at first Dean thinks Cas is crying because his eyelashes are wet, but then he realizes that it’s his own eyes that have filled with tears.

“Oh my god,” he says, pulling away, bringing a forearm up to wipe his eyes, “Jesus, sorry.”

It’s funny that after everything that just transpired, he still feels the need to pull away.

Cas obviously agrees, because he brings his other hand to Dean’s face, using his thumbs to swipe away the tears.

“It’s okay,” he promises, kissing the skin beneath Dean’s eyes. “It’s okay, Dean.”

When Cas gently guides their mouths back together, Dean can taste the salt of his own tears on Cas’ lips, and he has to take a moment to let his heart contract because it feels like a baptism, like a blessing.

They shift positions, Dean scooting up the bed to lay his head on the lone pillow as Cas hovers over him, eyes startlingly bright and open. He bends down to kiss Dean again, and Dean can feel the stick and press and heat of their lips together. Cas has ended up with a knee on either side of Dean’s hips, his hands still on Dean’s cheeks like they’re glued there, like he wants to spend the rest of his life with his hands here in this very position.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs against Dean’s mouth, mushy and languid, “So sorry.”

Dean reaches a hand up to tangle his fingers in Cas’ hair, pulling his mouth down again, and wraps his other hand around one of Cas’ wrists, his thumb stroking the smooth, thin skin there.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promises in between kisses, and he manages to think for the first time in a long time, that maybe they will.

***

It never went much further than that. They eventually ended up lying beside each other on Dean’s bed, one of Cas’ hands still on his cheek and the other tracing his features, seeking out the freckles on his nose.

Dean got the all clear text from Sam with an added, _we need to talk asap_ , which Dean takes to mean once they get back.

Ten minutes later, his phone rings on the nightstand and Dean thinks it’s Sam calling to have the talk now, so he’s incredibly surprised to hear Ariel’s voice on the other end of the line when he picks up without looking at the caller ID. He sits up immediately, Cas following suit, looking worried.

“Dean,” Ariel says, and the tone of her voice immediately conveys this is not just a call to check in. “I’ve remembered something.”

“What is it?” Dean asks, the nerves that have managed to dissipate over the last little while returning with a vengeance.

“Adler’s real name,” Ariel says.

“ _Who_?”

Ariel takes a deep breath.

“The person who ran that cult? Who killed the eleven other fallen angels?” there’s a pause, as if she’s double checking in her own mind that she’s getting it right.

“His name is Zachariah.”


	12. Raise Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title taken from the song of the same name by brandi carlile- only for like, two lines out of the entire song bc i have a terrible sense of humor.

It’s not like Dean _hasn’t_ had sex dreams before.

In fact, he used to have them on a regular basis, and often, everything ended happy for everyone, including his partner (sometimes partner _s_ ) in the dream. As he’s gotten older they’ve abated in quantity, definitely, but not in quality. He doesn’t want to brag, but if there’s something he’s good at in bed, it’s making sure _everyone_ feels good.

So while he’s not necessarily _surprised_ that he’s currently dreaming about having sex with an attractive woman named Gabriella, he is somewhat, well, _surprised_.

His head’s been kind of occupied with The Cas Thing, lately. Also the whatever-the-hell-is-currently-going-on, but that seems to have taken a back seat since Ariel dropped the Zachariah bombshell on them last week. They haven’t heard anything since, all they’ve got is a name and not even a guarantee that it’s _the_ Zachariah they all know and hate. Although from the description they got, they think they’re pretty safe in their assumption the sleazy car salesman has somehow defied death just to annoy them one last time.

Gabriella calls him “big boy”, which is kind of strange since it’s never really been a thing for him, but he just rolls with it and figures this is his mind’s way of suggesting he try new things.

Their tryst is interrupted, however, when Dean is wrested from sleep by Sam banging on his bedroom door at seven in the morning. He wakes like a fire alarm has started blaring right next to his head, his hunter’s instincts kicking him like a spooked donkey.

“Wha- _what_?” he yells blearily, fumbling for his lamp in the dark and half rolling out of bed. He bangs his knee on his bed frame and bites out a bitter curse.

“We’ve got a case,” Sam informs him through the door. “In Arizona.”

Dean stops immediately, still trying to shake off the arousal from the dream and get his body clock back on track.

“Oh, and this couldn’t wait until-” Dean glances at his watch, “- after seven-oh-three in the morning to do this?” He walks to the door and yanks it open. Sam looks fucking chipper, which annoys Dean even more. “Since when do we work cases in _Arizona_ , anyway?”

“You need to wake Cas, too,” Sam says, ignoring his question. “He’s coming as well. Meet me in the library in fifteen.”

Before Dean can even protest, Sam has disappeared down the hallway in the direction of the kitchen, probably to make a fucking salad to go or something.

Dean takes a deep breath, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his palms. He eyes the closed door at the end of the hall nervously. It’s not that him and Cas have ignored each other for the past week. It’s been normal enough, minus the way Dean seems to suddenly become hyperaware of his every move whenever Cas is within at least three feet of him.

For a pair who did an awful lot of talking that day in Dean’s room, they definitely haven’t done much _actual_ talking since then. They’ve discussed the ‘plot developments’ as Charlie likes to call them, and they’ve talked about how nice it is to have a Crowley-less bunker and an Abaddon-less world. Any time the opportunity to discuss other things pops up, however, one of them either makes an excuse to leave, or neither of them seems to be able to find the words to actually open the topic. For example, Dean hasn’t mentioned that he’s been re-reading The Man Who Would Be King, albeit much slower this time. He hasn’t mentioned the fluttering that caught in his chest cavities when he re-read the part about Cas watching him rake leaves. He doesn’t know why, but he can’t get over the _intimacy_ of it. Like, he was raking leaves, not posing for a pinup cover or something. Besides, if looked at in the right light, it could be considered creepy. Cas going all invisible and then watching him has never exactly been his favorite pastime, especially since he spent a lot of ‘season six’ doing exactly that, so he could spy on them.

This feels different, though. It wasn’t Cas fishing for information. It wasn’t him being creepy in his typical trench coat-y creepiness. The way that it’s written, (which Dean has to remind himself, they still don’t actually know who wrote it) makes Dean think of the couple minutes he spent outside Lisa and Ben’s hospital room after he’d wiped their memories. Just standing there, debating on the merits of revealing himself. Whereas he had just _done_ an awful thing, and Cas was just about to _do_ an awful thing doesn’t matter so much.

They’ve both made terrible choices in the past.

Dean sucks in a breath as he walks to the other end of the hallway, and hesitates for only a moment before knocking gently on Cas’ door.

“Cas?” he says, loud enough for it to sound through the wood but hopefully not loud enough to knock him out of bed like Sam’s wakeup call did to him. “Cas, you awake, man?”

He knows the Trans, Chuck, and Charlie are all still asleep in their respective rooms, and instead of pounding on Cas’ door to get him up in case it wakes up the rest of the house, he gently opens it and slides inside the room, closing the door behind him.    

It’s dark, save the annoyingly bright alarm clock on Cas’ nightstand. The bright blue LED burns Dean’s retinas, and he vows that he’s going to buy Cas a less intense clock the next time they make an Ikea run.

Cas' back is turned to him, just a lump under his sheets. The last thing he wants to do is spook him, so Dean says, "Cas," one more time, hoping to stir him.

Cas shifts minimally, pulls the covers up a bit, but doesn't move otherwise.

At least, Dean thinks, he's sleeping properly now. At least he's sleeping like a normal person should.

He just hopes the weeks of Cas barely sleeping are long gone.

He leans over to gently shake him awake.

"Hey," he whispers, and everything feels so soft in this dark. His kind of dark is usually occupied by a ghost or creature of some kind hoping to kill him, so it's a nice change. All there is in this dark is Cas' breathing and the occasional rustle of sheets.

Cas turns over blearily, his eyes only half open as he looks at Dean, confused.

"What's wrong?" He asks, voice mushy, "Dean?" He brings his hands up to his eyes, yawning hugely. Dean tries to keep his mind on the task at hand, but he can't help but be transfixed by Cas' face in the electric glow of the alarm clock. He's never seen his friend look quite so... Rumpled. And this is being said about a guy who used to wear a trench coat that looked like corrugated cardboard on its best days.

"Nothing's wrong," Dean says, and it hits him then that this is the first time he's ever actually woken Cas up by coming into his room as opposed to knocking on the door- as if he has a right to be here.

"Uh," he says dumbly on the heels of said realization, "it's just- Sam found a hunt that's apparently important and he wants to leave asap. I can just-" he takes a step away, ready to retreat from the situation with his tail between his legs.

Cas still seems to be in the process of waking up, his defenses down and seemingly unable to pinpoint why, exactly, Dean is acting so cagey.

"Okay," he says mildly, reaching over to his night stand to turn on the lamp. Both he and Dean raise their arms against the sudden influx of light, even though Dean had been out in the hallway not two minutes ago.

Cas is squinting at him from his bed, Dean caught halfway to retreat. Dean can't read Cas' face, isn't sure Cas has quite become accustomed yet to the idea of presenting an expression to read in the first place.

"It's, uh" Dean can feel his own face playing tricks on him, tweaking one way and then another like it's on autopilot- elastic emotions have always been part of the job description anyway, and it's not like Dean can leave all his work at the office. "We should maybe... I dunno..." He casts around for something to say, chickens out, hates himself. "Coffe?" He ends up asking, which is ridiculous because of course Cas wants coffee. He always does.

"Thank you," Cas says, climbing out of bed and brushing by Dean to get to his dresser. He starts collecting clothes, tossing them haphazardly onto the bed.

Once he turns around and spots Dean still lingering in his room, he asks, "did you sleep well?" He reaches under his bed to pull out a duffel bag.

Dean’s still fairly distressed to see how bare Cas' room still is. He's got the basic necessities but that's it. Still not a scrap to determine if and for how long he's staying, unless you count that ruddy duffel.

Dean shrugs.

"Eh," he says. "You?"

At least Cas has gotten used to sleeping in sweats. Dean’s still trying to break the denim habit. Probably helps that he hasn’t been sleeping in get-up-and-go clothes for almost his entire life.

Cas shrugs as well, piling the standard amount of clothes into his bag when they’re not sure how long a hunt is going to last.

“It’s strange to have existed for such a long time and then one day wake up to discover new instincts,” he says by way of explanation, “Sleep doesn’t come naturally to me, but it comes naturally to this body. It’s almost uncomfortable in the divide it provides.”

“That’s why you had so much trouble sleeping… at the beginning,” Dean surmises awkwardly.

“That and other reasons,” Cas agrees. He pats his bag down and zips it closed, placing both palms on top of it and finally meeting Dean’s gaze. He looks like he’s contemplating something, his mouth tightening in that way it does when he’s debating on whether or not to say something.

“What?” Dean asks, even though he already knows what’s coming.

“I know we already talked about this,” Cas says hesitantly, fiddling with one of the straps, “But I’m sorry, I don’t know the protocol for this kind of thing,” he gestures between himself and Dean, his face pleading, “I know it’s different for everyone, that they all come to different conclusions based on their circumstances at the time…” Dean’s pretty sure he’s seeing smoke escape from between the spaces of Cas’ fingers he’s rubbing the strap so hard. Before he can even come to his senses, he strides forward to still Cas’ ruminations, closing his hand around Cas’. It leaves the two of them standing quite close.

“I guess the protocol would be to start with a conversation like this,” Dean guesses, “Although I’m not exactly the best person to ask for relationship advice.”

Cas _hmm_ s. “Me neither,” he admits, looking down at their joined hands and then back up at Dean. “That’s unfortunate,” he murmurs, eyes flicking briefly down to Dean’s lips.

To put it simply, Dean’s really scared. When he said he didn’t know what he was doing last week before they kissed, he wasn’t kidding. There are a lot of variables here that Dean doesn’t know how to deal with, and a lot of feelings that he’s kept on the backburner for so long he’s not sure if he’ll ever be ready to properly confront them, Cas taking the form of a human dude the very very least of them. It’s still something he’s going to have to discuss with himself at some point, but it’s pretty buried under other, more pressing matters like the state of Cas’ species and future plans and Dean’s complete and utter inability to properly want anything for himself or even know how to take care of what he’s already got.

It _is_ unfortunate, actually, and not just flirtatiously. His relationship with Cassie was so long ago and so dysfunctional he doesn’t know if he would ever want to even attempt to glean anything from that attempt. Lisa was a different story, but with the way that ended, he doesn’t think he could bring himself to mine the memory for help. When all was said and done, he was barely functional at Lisa’s anyway.

No, these roads are ones he’s going to have to navigate himself, and the thought terrifies him.

Dean scrubs his free hand across his jaw.

“Cas,” he starts, and finds his other hand that’s on top of Cas’ squeezing. He feels his throat trying to fight him, and he’s not sure if he’s supposed to swallow these words or he’s supposed to be saying different ones, “I’m not sure…” he trails off, the words twisting up and away from him like wisps of smoke. He doesn’t know what he wants to say, or what he’s supposed to say, or if they’re even the same things.

He hesitantly brings his free hand to cup Cas’ face, and he’s not sure why a feeling of bittersweet melancholy tears through him when he does, but it seems to be the push he needs because next thing he knows, his mouth is on Cas’, warm and sweet.

 Cas seems eager enough to reciprocate, and their morning stubble rasps together. They unlink their hands, and Dean rests his on Cas’ hip, feeling the gentle heat from his sleep-warmed skin seeping through his thin t-shirt. Cas wraps his arm around Dean’s back, his palm hot and flat against the planes of his shoulders, and Dean finds himself shivering through his plaid before shucking it off completely.

Dean moves his hand from Cas' cheek to slide it to the back of his head, tangling his fingers in the already sleep-wild hair.

His brain is fuzzing out, but not before he can wonder if this is happening because they both genuinely want it to, or because they aren't sure what to say next. Whatever the answer, it doesn't stop the electricity that's zipping through Dean with each passing moment.

They move simultaneously, the backs of Cas' knees bumping into the edge of bed. Dean gently maneuvers him into a sitting position, taking the seat beside him without breaking the kiss.  Cas' hands are fisted in his t-shirt, holding tight enough that his knuckles are going white.

Dean breaks it off, leaning his forehead against Cas', eyes closed and giving them both a moment to breathe.

"Sorry," Dean mutters, "morning breath." But that's not what he's apologizing for.

"I didn't even notice," Cas says honestly before moving forward again.

Technically, this isn't Dean’s first time with a guy. There were always truck stops when he was a teenager and in his early twenties, and there was always money to be made from the scruffy, bearded guys who would just as soon beat up a fag than get sucked off by one. Dean’s run the gamut.

Obviously, Cas is different. For a myriad of reasons, really. Although Dean still has trouble reconciling the idea of 'Cas' and 'here' in the same thought.

Not that he has abandonment issues or anything.

His hand has found its way under the edge of Cas' shirt, his palm brushing against the smooth planes of Cas' side, and the sharp jut of his hipbone.

Dean’s pretty sure he makes a pained sound in the back of his throat, because Cas' gaze darkens and he moves from Dean’s mouth, dragging his lips down the edge of Dean’s jaw and finding a particularly sensitive spot on his neck to start pressing his mouth to, hot and insistent.

Neither of them say anything, unless it’s an escaped sigh or an accidental groan. Dean would have expected more talking, but he guesses the act of talking (or not) is what got them into this situation in the first place.

He pulls at Cas’ shirt, trying to get him to move onto the bed properly, but Cas either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because he’s switched to mouthing right along Dean’s Adam’s apple, and if Cas hums while he’s doing it, that’s probably why Dean feels like his entire body is vibrating.

“Hey,” he mumbles, tapping Cas’ side to get his attention, “Hey.”

Cas looks up at him, mouth flush and pupils dilated, hair mussed.

“C’mere,” Dean instructs, pulling at Cas again, trying to lay him out flat on the bed beneath him. Cas picks up on it quick enough, quickly shifting to the center of his bed. Dean flicks the pillow now behind Cas’ head. “Padding, see?” he grins, and thinks, _not so hard_ , _is it_?   

Then Cas looks at him in a way that makes Dean’s stomach feel like it’s swooped up and over his head and is currently rocketing its way out of this galaxy, and he thinks, _yeah, maybe not_.

Cas brings his hands to the sides of Dean’s face and pulls him down to press their mouths together. Dean has one knee between Cas’ legs and one knee by his hip. One of Cas’ legs is bent at the knee, his ankle just barely hooked around Dean’s hip, and he can feel his face flood with heat thanks to the new position and accompanying friction. He doesn’t think he’s blushed like this since the legendary Rhonda Hurley, and it’s pitifully vanilla stuff, too. He doesn’t know what that means, but he sure as hell know what feels good.

He pushes minimally into the friction- he’s not sure how comfortable Cas is with that stuff yet, and frankly, he’s still trying to parse out his own feelings as well.

“This okay?” he asks quietly against Cas’ lips, while silently thanking the pajama deities for making their pants so thin. He may still be in jeans, but Cas’ bottoms are about as thin as one ply toilet paper.

“It’s ideal,” Cas assures him, and Dean’s pretty sure that’s a smirk that just flashed across Cas’ face.

“Okay,” he says, and tries to tamp down his smile, but he feels like a total fool when he fails and can barely kiss Cas properly because he’s too busy grinning.

“What is that?” Cas asks, peering questioningly up at him, raising an eyebrow. He pokes Dean’s bottom lip right in the middle with his index finger.

“It’s a smile, you doofus,” Dean tells him, “Please tell me you know what a smile is,” he says teasingly. He’s not sure where his head is at right now, but it’s like his chest is so _filled_ right now it’s physically trying to make more room for itself by pushing the corners of his mouth up. Really, he can’t help it.

Cas doesn’t answer, but instead fits his thumbs to the divots in Dean’s cheeks.

“The corners of your eyes crinkle when you smile,” tumbles out of Cas’ mouth like spilled marbles, and Dean watches them bounce off the bed and onto the floor. He’s pretty sure that was _not_ what Cas had intended to say.

“Fucking crow’s feet,” Dean grouses, trying to plow on like Cas didn’t just admit something that makes his heart do backflips. “I’m so old.” He puts a thumb right under Cas’ eye, stroking the skin there. He doesn’t think he’s ever touched or had someone touch his face this much in such a short period of time, and he wonders if this is them trying to make up for moments Dean would rather not think about right now. “You’ve got them too,” he smirks, “Just so you know.” He leans up to kiss Cas again.

“This body is older than yours,” Cas admits. “I’m pretty sure we’re at the height of what they call middle age.”

“Oh, so you finally learned how to use that term properly, huh?” Dean teases, and before he knows it, he kisses the tip of Cas’ nose, which _definitely_ wasn’t part of the game plan.

At least Cas doesn’t look at him like he’s finally lost it. But he does, suddenly, look unsure.

“So last week wasn’t… a fluke of some sort?” he asks. “Is this a real thing?”

Dean’s insides twist. If Cas only knew that for the past week he’s been sitting on his hands because he’s an idiot and a coward- and is still sitting on his hands, is a more metaphorical sense.

“God, Cas, yes,” he says, and, as usual, it’s only when the chips are down that Dean can articulate himself somewhat successfully. “This is-” he casts around for a word, and nothing suitable enough really comes to mind, “-I think this was a long time coming,” he settles on. Then, when he catches Cas’ expression, he suddenly panics. “I mean, assuming that’s what you, uh, want.”

The air between them goes horribly stale in the moment before Cas answers, but then he’s saying, “Yes, I would think so,” and is kissing Dean again.

Thirty seconds later, there’s a frizzing sound and a blast of sparks next to Dean’s head. He practically peels himself off Cas to stare at the now defunct alarm clock to his left.

“What the fuck?” he says to no one in particular. There’s a fissure of smoke curling up through the grate, now, and the screen is completely dead. He looks back down at Cas, who doesn’t seem surprised. “What the fuck?” he says again, this time directed at Cas.

“Oh,” Cas says mildly. Then, “I assume you can recall from our, uh, talk last week that I’m having what you could call a species-based crisis.”

“Um.” Dean looks from Cas to the clock, and then back again. He sits back on his heels, Cas’ leg unfortunately being used as a seat. “You’re telling me that _you_ did that?”

Cas shrugs.

“It looks like it,” he says. “It’s not terribly surprising. During bouts of, ah, _heightened emotion_ , it would probably manifest itself more obviously.”

Dean purses his lips. “You’re saying you’re an adrenaline fueled mom who lifts a mini-van off her kid or something?” he asks skeptically.

“Maybe?”

Dean chews on his tongue for a moment.

“Are you… alright with that?” he asks.

“Breaking my alarm clock?” Cas says, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s being obviously obtuse. “Not really.”

Cas’ face is smooth and seemingly trouble free, so Dean decides to let the matter drop for now.

At least he now has an excuse to buy Cas a better clock.

***

“Wait, so you’re saying you think Gabriel is alive?” Dean practically spits out when they’re in the car half an hour later. Sam’s just now filled him and Cas in on his “theory” and Dean knew he should’ve asked Sam what the case was before they left instead of trusting his brother’s awful instincts.

“It has trickster written all over it!” Sam defends himself from the passenger’s seat. He slaps the back of his hand against the print outs he’s holding. “I mean, a serial killer who taxidermies people is found stuffed and mounted in place of the statue in the town square. An alcoholic abusive husband is somehow found drowned in his beer stein. A _beer stein_ , Dean.” He flips through the pages. “Oh. Here’s a woman who-”

“Alright, alright, enough already,” Dean waves him off. “Yeah, they sound like just deserts Sam, but if you recall, Gabriel is dead. And not just normal angel stabby death, but killed-by-the-lord-of-darkness death. We saw wings and everything.”

“He’s fooled us before,” Sam says. “Maybe he just wanted to disappear back underground again after the whole debacle with Lucifer.”

“Can’t fault him for that,” Dean agrees. “But, humor me here, Sam, why are we searching for Gabriel in the first place? Last I remember, he’s a major douchwand.”

“He is,” Sam says with enough finality that Dean feels at least a little better, “But he also helped us save the world.”

“He also killed me thousands of times,” Dean grumbles. “Hey, Cas, you think Gabe could still be kicking?” he raises his brows at Cas in the rear view mirror.

“With Gabriel, anything is possible,” he admits. “Although it doesn’t make much sense for him to just start killing again with his normal methods if he doesn’t want to be found.”

“That sounds like the long way of saying it might be a trap,” Dean says, looking at Sam pointedly.

“It might be, yeah,” Sam says, “But it might not be,” he considers, “It might not even be him.”

“Wow, that’s convincing.”

“Shut _up_ , Dean. He might know what’s going on.”

“Sam’s right,” Cas chips in, “If he does know what’s going on, he might be able to give us information on Zachariah as well.”

“About that,” Dean says, “Are we all in agreement that if it _is_ the Zach we all know and love, then he was one of the, uh, collaterals shaken out by this dimensional roller derby thing-y?”

“Abaddon described it as debris,” Sam informs him.

Dean snorts. “Yeah, well, if there was ever a word to describe Gabe and Zach, that would be it.”

***

Cas isn’t exactly sure how he feels about what’s going on. It’s the same problem that’s been plaguing him for years; namely, his family is full of dicks.

The first time he learned of Zachariah dying, he wasn’t exactly distressed. Same for Gabriel. There was still the obligatory moment of reflection where he contemplated a future with never seeing either of them again, but really by that point, they were neck-deep in the apocalypse and didn’t have much time for grieving.   

The prospect of seeing either of them again is… jarring. And, actually, embarrassing. Because whatever he is now, he’s certainly not an angel anymore. He was already pushing the realm of powerlessness the last time he saw both of them, but this more permanent state probably looks more like _settling_ than anything else. He supposes some habits die hard, though, including the gross sense of superiority instilled in him by his family.

He’s not unaware. He realizes that he was awfully supportive of encouraging humanity’s greatness before he actually fell and joined their ranks. It makes him feel like a liar, like a cheat.

They stop in Santa Fe for the night, he and Dean curling up beside each other in a crappy motel room that has mold growing in the bathroom. There was a time when he could have gotten rid of it with nary a glance, or even better, been completely neutral to its presence. Instead, he finds himself eyeing it warily as he showers, and still thinking about it long into the night even though there’s literally a wall between him and it.

He finds himself considering his mortality in the smallest of ways, when he always figured it would be ‘big picture’ stuff. Dean’s accused him more than once of not seeing the forest for the trees, but Cas isn’t sure he agrees, especially when he’s seeing trees all over the place; there’s the crack in the sidewalk he tripped over earlier today; the way the person in the car in front of them braked suddenly on the freeway today, and both Sam and Dean almost went flying out the windshield, whereas Cas got thrown against the back of Sam’s seat, and Sam had to keep saying, “It’s not worth it,” over and over again, as Dean kept trying to open his door and yelling vague threats about what he’s got in his trunk and the paint on his car, although his eyes hadn’t stopped darting fearfully between Sam and Cas for the entire time; a stray cat had wandered out behind the bunker in the middle of last week, and despite Dean’s warnings about rabies and “that thing’ll scratch your damn eyes out, Cas,” Cas had resolutely brought it a saucer of milk and sat with it until it sped off into the forest again when Dean stepped on a twig by accident.

There’s the occasional thought that crosses his mind about planes falling from the sky and a detached wing decapitating him, or perfectly sound buildings like the grocery store or the department store crumbling down around him at random one day. There’s an infinite amount of ways his life could end every single second, and yet he always seems to get caught up in the small stuff, which is the exact opposite of the problem he used to have.  

It could be sensory overload. He could be truly humbled. But then his eyes linger too long on Dean, on the little things. On how scruffy his stubble is at any given time of day. On the very slight blush that colors his cheeks whenever he’s frustrated or flattered. On the way Dean’s heart thumps in his chest under Cas’ ministrations.

Sure, he likes television. He’s found he enjoys the smell of cracking open old books from the bunker’s library.

There’s something about Dean, though. Something that makes him _want_ to look for the little things, as opposed to just _noticing_ them.

Long after Dean is asleep, Cas watches the slant of moonlight coming in through the crack in the curtains illuminate Dean’s freckles, and Cas wants to touch every single one of them. They’re literally little. They _are_ the little things.

***

**Tonto Basin, Arizona**

They breeze into town about midday, pulling out their fed badges for the local police department. The sheriff is happy to share the case with his federal friends, seemingly out of ideas and at the end of his rope.

“This is a weird one, boys,” sheriff Bradley admits huffily, his moustache practically bristling as he speaks, Sam, Dean, and Cas following him down the hall of the station, “The residents are horrified; they think there’s a serial killer on the loose.”

“Four bodies in two weeks,” Dean says neutrally to the sheriff’s back, “How do you know it’s not?”

The sheriff shrugs helplessly, and Sam can tell this guy is completely out of his depth here. 

“We haven’t been able to connect the victims in any way,” Bradley tells them, stopping in front of a plain white door and punching in a code on the lock. “No mutual friends, no cross referenced phone calls, nothing.” It beeps and they follow him into the file room. The bunker is practically a giant library, and even Sam is surprised at the amount of paper in here. Musty old boxes- presumably full to the brim with files- are packed to the ceiling, teetering dangerously in the stale air being blown around by the lone, rickety ceiling fan.

“Sorry,” Bradley apologizes, “That newfangled hi-tech stuff hasn’t really hit Tonto Basin yet. We’re just a little too far from Phoenix to be of any significane,” he grimaces. “Take your time.”

Sam, Dean, and Cas are left staring at each other as Bradley closes the door behind him.

“Fuck,” Dean offers, staring gloomily at the stacks.

“Well,” Sam rest his hands on his hips, “If Gabriel really is back, the proof is going to be in those files… somewhere.”

“Just look for the ones that aren’t bathing in dust,” Dean grumbles, pre-emptively rubbing his hands on his jeans.

They start pulling the boxes out one by one, half of them unmarked, the other half written in such awful handwriting Sam can hardly decipher it. He keeps an eye out for the victim’s names on the labels, but more often than not, he’s stuck opening them and searching for a picture or some other kind of visual evidence.

Sam’s just pulling down his eleventh box when he hears the code pad beeping from the other side of the door. He turns to look, and a woman who kind of looks like a fox enters the room. When she sees that the room is already occupied, she stops immediately.

“My bad,” she says, “You must be the feds the sheriff was talking about.”

Sam stands, brushing the dirt from the knees of his pants.

“Hi,” he says, extending a hand, and inclining his head towards where Dean and Cas are still shifting through papers, “Agents Steiner, Bisley, and Wright.”

She takes his hand, her grip surprisingly strong for someone of her stature.  “Officer Horn.” She nods at all three of them. “Sorry to burst in on you, gentlemen. I’ll leave you to it.” She exits the room, and when Sam glances over his shoulder, he sees that all the blood has drained from Dean’s face.

“Dean?” Sam asks, moving forward, “Hey, are you okay?”

Cas, who’s been more interested in the files than anything, glances up at Sam’s tone.

“Dean,” he says when he catches sight of Dean’s expression, “Dean, what’s wrong?”

Dean’s face has gone a strange puce color, now, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“What did she say her name was?” Dean asks quietly, controlled, as Sam grabs his arm to help him up.

“Officer Horn,” Sam says, confused. “Why? Have you seen her before?”

Dean makes a sound that Sam thinks was supposed to be a laugh.

“Oh yeah,” he says, “I’ve seen her.” The look of shock is draining away now, and when Dean speaks next, he’s undeniably pissed. “And I’m pretty damn sure Gabriel just found us.”

***

“Officer Horn” ducks into the alley behind the station about ten minutes later for a smoke break, and Dean has to force every instinct that’s screaming at him to calm down, in case Gabriel’s fucked them over one more time and is gleefully waiting for him to attack an innocent woman.

Instead, he settles for a heavy hand on the shoulder and a casually said, “Let me guess. _Gabriella_ Horn?”

The shoulder under his hand stiffens, and Dean watches the lit cigarette drop to the pavement. Slowly, she steps forward, out from under Dean’s hand, to crush it beneath her foot. She turns around, fully fledged smirk on her face.

“Would it be crass of me to say, ‘In your dreams, Winchester’?” she asks, eyes flashing mischievously.

“Oh, _god_ ,” Dean says, putting a hand over his face. “Was the dream _really_ necessary?”

Gabriel purses her lips in amusement, sucking her cheeks in.

“No,” she says, “But I couldn’t say hi to Sammy with the cool case and leave you out!” She faux pouts, “Where’s the fun in that, huh?” She stands on her tiptoes to peer over Dean’s shoulders. “Where’s pipsqueak and grouchy, anyways?”

There’s the sound of a pebble being kicked, and Gabriel turns around, following Dean’s line of site. “Hello, Gabriel,” Cas says mildly, as he and Sam emerge from the other end of the alleyway.

Dean hasn’t thought in these terms in years, but watching Sam and Cas just appear like that is pretty fucking badass if he may say so himself.

“Bro!” Gabe cries cheerfully, looking at Cas, “And sort of bro of my bro!” she grins at Sam. “What’s up, guys?”

“We’re going to be asking the questions tonight,” Dean says flatly, all business, “First off,” he gestures at Gabriel as a whole, “What’s the deal with this? Short stuff not working out for you?”

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” Gabe sneers for a moment, before letting her hackles fall and shrugging. “I thought it would impress Kali,” she admits. “But as it turns out, I have no idea where she is and she doesn’t seem to have any interest in finding me. But, hey, plenty of fish in the sea, right?” she says hopefully.

“Not as many if you keep killing them,” Sam states as he and Cas move in slightly, forming a tighter circle around her.

Gabe rolls her eyes.

“C’mon,” she sighs, slouching and turning on the spot, appealing to all of them in turn, “We fought the _devil_ together. Are we really going to do this dance again, boys? I’m a good guy.” She pointedly ignores Dean’s scoff. “Besides, we all know I have more juice in my pinky finger than any of you do in your entire bodies- including all those phallic objects you’re packing.”

Even though Gabe may have changed vessels, this one has all the annoying swagger the last one had. However, she also has that same constant undercurrent that makes everything she says sound like a potential threat, so they’re not really in any position not to take her seriously. The only reason they’re still talking is because she’s decided to allow it.

“You know?” Cas asks sharply.

Gabe turns to Cas, her dark eyes knowing. “I know a lot of things, Cas.” She juts a hip out, putting a palm to it, “But I figure you’re asking if I know about your little-” Gabe whistles what it sounds like when a bomb is falling, cheek plumping explosion effects added as well, “-descent? Yeah, I can practically smell it coming off you a mile away,” her tone changes as she gets to the end of the sentence, a melancholy threading through her voice that Dean can only assume is akin to mourning. Cas didn’t actually die that night, but a part of him did, in a way.

Gabe shakes her head in disappointment, clucking her tongue. “Rough break, kid,” she says, “And I mean that honestly, from one of dad’s fuck ups to another.”

“I’m coping,” Cas says stiffly.

“Oh, I know that, too,” Gabe says, gaze darting to Dean and away so quickly that Dean’s not sure if it even happened in the first place.

“Okay, but, how the hell are you even alive?” Sam asks, “We watched Lucifer stab you. We saw the wings.”

A shadow passes over Gabe’s face and her expression falls away.

“Yeah,” she says bitterly, “Yeah, he really killed me. I was really dead. Done like dinner, et cetera.”

Sam spreads his hands unsympathetically, “… And now you’re not?” he prompts.

Her mouth is closed, but Dean can see her running her tongue over her teeth in thought. She jiggles her foot on the spot a little, bouncing it up and down like she’s just running at the peak of a sugar high.

Finally, she huffs out a sigh.

“Consider this another extension of my incredible good will,” she warns, teeth gritted, “And a reward for not breaking out the holy fire this time.”

“No worries,” Dean says, “You just caught us unprepared is all.”

Gabriel glares at him.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam hisses.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Just get on with the story, self-proclaimed _good guy_.” He puts as much emphasis on the words as possible. “And, hey, fuck you. You just told me that you were saying _hi_ to me and Sam, okay? So don’t fucking pretend like we’re putting you out by being here. You obviously wanted us to find you.”

Gabe rolls her eyes, but seems genuinely irritated about Dean calling her out. “Okay, you caught me,” she says flippantly. “I was calling on the Winchesters to do my dirty work. Surprise.” She does the worst impression of jazz hands Dean has ever seen in an attempt at bravado, and this is coming from a guy who doesn’t make it a habit to be in situations where jazz hands are used often.

Why people always seem to come to the Winchesters to handle their problems, Dean isn’t actually sure. In all honestly, they’re pretty incompetent.

“What could _you_ possibly want from _us_?” Cas asks suspiciously, voicing Dean’s thoughts, “We have nothing to offer you that you don’t already have.”

Gabe scratches the back of her head awkwardly.

“Yeah,” she says haltingly, “About that.” She stares determinedly at the alley wall for a moment. “Lucky for you, it kind of ties into my whole death and rebirth act, so you’ll get that story too.”

“Oh, please,” Dean simpers, “Go on.”

“Well, first things first,” she says, “Do you guys know about the, uh, current issues?”

“There’s a lot of ‘current issues’ right now,” Sam says, “But if you’re referring to the whole dimensional doorways thing, then yeah. We know.”

Gabe says, “Super. So the universe is basically chafing itself to bits but at least we’re all in the know.”

“ _Get on with it, Gabe_.”

“So, anyways,” she continues, “I died. Stabbed by my brother, very dramatic, charred wings and all. You were there,” she says, looking at Sam and Dean, “I expect you cried. Floods, probably.” At Sam and Dean’s unimpressed looks, she keeps going, “So I went to the place angels go when they die.”

“Which is where?” Cas asks, almost eagerly.

Gabe shrugs.

“It’s… hazy, to say the least. But since I had the luck to be born an archangel, I had a little more juice than most of the other beings who were stuck there with me. The most I remember is battling my way to the front of the queue once we all realized there was friction between the dimensions, and I was the slipperiest little sucker which means I got out and no one else did.”

Sam makes a “hm” sound, and then says, “When we were told this story, it was made to sound like the stuff that fell through the other dimensions was more _debris_ than anything.”

Gabriel puts a hand to her chest in mock-outrage.

“I am hurt, Sam,” she says, “I am _offended_ you would think of me like that.”

“So I’m right,” Sam concludes, and the set of Gabe’s jaw is enough to read it as the victory that it is.

“It’s complicated,” Gabe stresses, “Other dimensions, other rules, so they all puncture differently.”

“Is there any chance another angel got out as well?” Cas asks, “Could someone have followed you, or your trail, back to earth?”

“It’s possible, but there’s no real way of telling,” Gabe informs them, squinting. She looks between the three of them. “Why? Who else is back?”

They share a glance before Sam says, “We also think Zachariah is back.”

Gabriel slaps a hand on her thigh, “ _God_ ,” she says, “What a stick in the mud he was, huh, Cassie?” She shakes her head. “Damn. It wouldn’t surprise me though. Good luck on that one.”

“Don’t offer to help or anything,” Dean assures her sarcastically, “We’ve got it covered, naturally.”

Gabriel quirks a dangerous brow at him.

“The second part of the story is exactly the reason _why_ I can’t help you,” she says, shooting Dean a dark look. “It wasn’t easy escaping. I basically had to _think_ myself back into existence, and I know you intrepid trio aren’t exactly good at the thinking bit, but trust me when I say it’s a really really hard thing to do.”

“Must have taken a long time to think that ginormous ego back into existence,” Dean says snarkily, but for once, Gabe ignores him.

“Traveling between dimensions in the state I was in,” she admits, “Was rough. It wasn’t exactly easy on my grace,” she hesitates, “Or my true form.”

“What, so you’re like, _just_ a trickster now?” Dean asks, “Just like that?”

“No,” she snaps, “Like I said, it’s complicated. Look,” she takes a deep breath, “You’ve been to hell. You made a crossroads deal. You know what a demon’s true form look like. Despite the fluffy wings, an angel’s true form is a hell of a lot bigger, and a hell of a lot uglier. Especially after being dragged through the mud between dimensional doors that shouldn’t be there.”

Dean glances at Cas, who seems to be taking this spiel in with a whole lot more gravitas than Dean is. Dean can only assume Cas understands at least an approximation of what Gabe is talking about.

“If Zachariah decided to inhabit the same vessel he had before you killed him,” Gabe says, “you should know that death may make angels of us all, but it certainly doesn’t make us suitable for the cover of Cosmo either, if you get my drift.”

Dean blinks rapidly before turning to Cas.

“I don’t know what she means,” he says, “I don’t understand what she’s saying. It’s like gibberish is an actual language for her.”

Cas just barely supresses an eye roll before saying, “Once we run into Zachariah- and I’m sure we will- he probably won’t look too good.”

“So you’re saying you can’t help us because you aren’t powerful enough?” Sam asks, “Funny that you basically walked in here on the threat that you could kill us all with a snap of your fingers.”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand me,” Gabe says, eyelashes fluttering, “I’m here to offer you what little help I can, and then I’m scurrying off to find the nearest rock to hole up under.”

“Don’t tell me you’re playing third party to this fight, too,” Dean snaps.

“Um, hello?” Gabe steps forward and knocks on Dean’s forehead. “Last time I put my ass on the line, I got an angel blade shoved up it, okay? No way I’m facing down any big bads again. You Winchesters and Cas, though, death is like a revolving door for you assholes. This is your chance to put it to good use.”

“No one has to die,” Sam says, even though there’s not exactly a whole host of conviction in his voice. “Not this time.”

Gabe inclines her head.

“Reluctant optimism if I’ve ever seen it,” she chides. “You gotta commit to it, Sammy.”

“How about you commit to telling us what ‘help’ you can actually give,” Dean cuts in. “Because so far, all I see is you playing small town asshole and wearing a cop to do it.”

“Right.” Gabe nods. “That would be where the traveling comes in.”

***

“The travel-” Dean can’t even get the full question out before he finds himself suddenly standing in the middle of a forest.

“Welcome to a random but _muy importante_ forest.” She announces, inexplicably changed out of her officer’s uniform and now wearing an almost unbearably ugly sweater.

Sam and Cas are at his side, Sam at least looking as disoriented as Dean feels.

“What the hell?” Dean spits, “Where are we?”

“We are currently somewhere in the Monongahela national forest,” Gabriel chirps cheerfully, all innocuous smiles once more. “For those of you who aren’t geography buffs or don’t drive around the country like it’s your day job, that’s in West Virginia.”

“Dude, my _car_ ,” Dean moans.

“Oh, hush,” Gabriel sighs dramatically, “Your car is perfectly safe back in Arizona. We’ll pick it up after we’re done here.”

“And what, exactly, are we doing here?” Cas asks, although from his tone of voice Dean’s pretty sure he’s already started to figure it out.

Gabriel leans against a nearby tree, and knocks her elbow against it meaningfully.

“We’re currently standing about fifty feet from one of the doorways,” she explains, “And I’m going to teach you muttonheads how to walk through it.”

 “Why the hell would we want to do that?” Dean asks, aghast. “You’ve been dead for a while, so you may not know, but traveling to other dimensions hasn’t really worked out for any of us. Like, at all.”

Gabriel rolls her eyes.

“We’re not talking about the big three here, champ,” she says, as if that should have been obvious. “No, this little rip here leads into a little baby dimension. Think of it as the Pluto of dimensions.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Sam informs her. “Why do we need to do this in the first place?”

Gabriel gives them all a long suffering stare. “Really?” she asks disbelievingly, drawing out the ‘R’ for as long as possible. “It’s not obvious?” At Sam and Dean’s blank looks, she clicks her tongue. “Wow. Okay. Well, the idea is, if you’re trying to save the world from all the different dimensions pouring into each other- because, as I’m sure you can guess, they’re separated for a reason- it might, and correct me if I’m wrong, but it _might_ be helpful if you knew how to use those doorways to your advantage. You can’t fix a leaky pipe in the upstairs bathroom if you’re in the basement, capiche?”

“We capiche,” Cas says, sending warning looks to both Sam and Dean telling them to leave it be. “Teach us.”

“Perfect,” Gabe says, clapping her hands. “Who’s ready for a training montage?”

***

It turns out to be less training montage, more meditation, which is probably why Cas gets the hang of it before either of them. That, and the fact that he used to be an angel and actually understands how dimensions work. The first time he flickers momentarily from sight, Dean shouts and rushes over to him.

“Dude,” he says, shaking a dazed Cas by the shoulder, “You okay?”

Cas blinks up at him, as Gabriel steps in to say, “Of _course_ he’s okay.” She waggles her eyebrows at Cas, “Muscle memory, am I right?”

Cas puts a hand to his head.

“Yeah,” he mutters, still looking a little displaced. “Yeah, I think I just need to take a moment.”

Gabe claps him on the shoulder.

“Okay, you two,” she points at Sam and Dean, “I want you guys to make something happen as well.”

“After what it just did to Cas?” Dean snaps, “I don’t think so.”

“What are you, his grandmother?” Gabe asks sardonically, “He’s fine. You will be too.”

Sam shakes his head slowly. “I can’t imagine dimension hopping is a thing humans can normally do,” he says doubtfully. “This is dangerous.”

“You idiots kill monsters for a living,” Gabe drawls, “Don’t preach to me about safety. Take a WHMIS course or something.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “We generally try _not_ to dwell in inter-dimensional warfare,” he says, “Since it worked out so well last time.”

“Thanks for the warning, by the way,” Dean chips in, “Y’know, the whole, ‘you’re fucking up the universe’s continuity by doing this’ thing. That definitely would have been helpful way back when.”

“But you were so convinced free will was the way to go,” Gabe simpers, “What kind of celestial being would I be to dispel that notion? Besides,” her voice hardens out, “I was a little too busy being dead at the time to really do anything about it.”

“Oh, god,” Dean groans, “You gripe more about being dead than Cas has, and he’s died like fifty times since meeting us.”

“Okay,” Sam the peacemaker jumps in, eyes darting between Gabe and Dean, “Maybe we should try and stick to the topic at hand here.”

“Yeah, the topic of-” Dean glances to the side, and does a double take, stopping midsentence. “Uh,” he says dumbly, “Where’s Cas?”

Both Sam and Gabe’s heads turn to the spot Cas was literally just sitting in two minutes ago.

“Oh,” Gabe says, faux-surprised, “Oh dear.”

Dean’s gaze snaps back to Gabe. “Was this you?” he accuses, striding forward to attempt to pin Gabriel to the tree, but Gabriel disappears and reappears behind him.

“Did I mention,” she says blandly, “That if you open the door, you have no choice but to walk through?” her eyes flash as she looks at Sam and Dean, “Now would be a good time to figure out how to open your own door, boys.”

***

Dean’s heart has leaped into his throat, and he has no idea how the fuck he’s supposed to calm down if his pulse is thundering along like a fucking grandfather clock striking twelve. Sam is still trying to pry answers out of Gabriel.

“Can he get out on his own?” Sam demands, “Can’t you just hop over there and get him? Is there anything you can do that’s not just _standing there_?”

Gabe just shrugs.

“Your best bet is to jump into the fray yourself,” she advises, and there’s an undercurrent of smug satisfaction that Dean picks up on. Sam must hear it too, because his eyes widen.

“You _wanted_ him to get through first, didn’t you?” he accuses, “So that would jump start me and Dean.”

Gabriel winks and taps the side of her nose.

“I figured incentive would be necessary,” she says.

“You son of a _bitch_ ,” Sam growls, before putting his hand to his face in defeat. “You piece of shit no good-”

“Sam,” Dean interrupts, trying to keep his voice level despite feeling like he’s going to fall off some sort of cliff at any moment, “Shut up and just get to work.”

“Now that’s a work ethic I like,” Gabriel says happily. “Take notes, Sam.”

As Sam and Dean attempt to focus, Gabe leans against her favorite tree again.

“When you get there,” she says, “It’s going to be disorienting. Don’t fight it. Cas is going to be a little out of it, so you’re both going to need to help bring him back.”

“Let me guess,” Dean can’t help but grit out, blood boiling, “That was courtesy of you as well?”

“Do you even know what the phrase ‘force your hand’ means? Good lord.”

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, “ _Fuck_.”

He’s supposed to be quieting his mind and stepping through the doorway, but instead, he focuses on _Cas_. On saving Cas, on bringing him back alive and okay. On kissing the stupid fuck because he’s fucking scared as shit and he needs to know that Cas is going to be alright when they bring him back. On-

-

Something forces Dean to open his eyes, and he finds himself in another dimension.

“Whoa,” he says- or, tries to say. Apparently, speaking is not a thing in this place. He’s actually not sure if he has a tongue here, and when he tries to lift a hand to his face, he finds that he can’t.

He can see, at least. The world around him looks like similar to heat waves rising off asphalt, but instead of them being road level, he’s surrounded by them. It’s only when he moves forward that he realizes the waves aren’t _in_ the air, but that they _are_ the air. He thinks the world in front of him is just more forest like the one he just exited, except skewed through a funhouse mirror.

It’s like he’s swimming through syrup, his movements slow and languid. He reasons that Cas can’t have gone far, that he’s only been here for a couple minutes longer than Dean. Plus, he’s apparently incapacitated thanks to Gabriel’s interference.

Where the hell Sam is, however, Dean has no clue. But he’s not waiting.

He wades through the air, trying to ignore the way it pushes back at him, ignoring the way it feels like his skin is grating like cheese the faster he moves. There’s no sound here, either, and it faintly reminds him of a silent motorcycle engine, an empty Roadhouse, and he feels sick to his stomach. Does he even possess a stomach here?

“Cas!” he tries to shout, even though he knows it’s futile.

To his surprise, he watches the waves in front of him shudder, rippling out in all directions like when a pebble is dropped into still water. They continue at the same velocity as far as Dean can see, and then disappearing completely.

“Cas!” he tries again, and the same thing happens, the same waves.

Dean continues through the strangely bent forest, tripping over rocks that look like they’re three feet to the left from the angle he’s standing at, but actually right under his foot. His face gets slapped by branches in what feels like slow motion, thanks to then being stretched to their fullest extent, held together by only a string of atoms or whatever counts as the building blocks of the universe here.

He sees no signs of life, although he has no idea what ‘life’ would actually look like here. Maybe Gabe actually got them an empty dimension to practise in.

How thoughtful.

Dean doesn’t know how long he wanders, intermittently calling out Cas’ name through the vibration in the waves.

Aside from the bizarre-o-vision, this dimension seems similar enough to earth. The sky isn’t pink or green or anything- just a flat, typical grey. The forest is just like any other forest Dean’s ever seen, from what he can make out of it. Of course, he has no idea what hides in the pockets he can’t see, the crevices where the waves bend and coalesce. There’s space there. Hidden. It’s just a matter of ardently ignoring whatever inhabits it.

A shiver radiates up Dean’s back, and it feels like someone dropped a slinky down the back of his collar. 

Once he starts thinking about it, he can’t seem to stop. Every patch of fractured darkness he sees looks like it has teeth. Every glint of watery sunlight that splinters as it hits the thick atmosphere looks like a flash of malevolent intent in the branches of the trees.

It’s not like he’s not used to teeth and mean eyes. He’s just not used to it while in another dimension, which he thinks is fair enough. At least purgatory had the grace to have similar air contents as earth. Maple syrup in place of nitrogen is just rude. If he were in a joking mood, he would say that he must have accidentally stumbled into Canada at some point.

He has no idea how long he’s been here, because the sky never changes. The shadows never lengthen. Even if they did, he doesn’t know how time works here. The only tiredness he seems allowed to feel is in the way his limbs resist any forward movement.  This forest must be neverending. Or maybe he’s going in circles. Or maybe this entire dimension is just one big forest.

He’s starting to think it’s all just one big exercise in futility, thinks Gabe is just testing them, is going to pluck him and Cas out whenever he decides to just stop and thrust his middle finger to the sky.

Dean almost misses the first faint vibrations that he himself doesn’t make. He just catches it out of the corner of his eye, and stops fast because he thinks he’s finally come upon some sort of life form. He stares, wide eyed and frozen, until, finally, the waves vibrate weakly again.

“Cas!” Dean shouts again, “Cas!” He watches the waves leave, and as he crashes through the underbush, tiny waves return, hitting him mid stride, and he thinks tiredly, _thank god_. He wants to slump over with relief, but if he ever keels over in this environment he knows it’s going to be almost impossible to get back up again.

He soldiers on.

As he follows the weak waves, he tries not to contemplate the deeper issues at play here. He’s done pretty well holding it together thus far, and there’s- well, he doesn’t want to be naïve- but there’s _less_ danger, at least, when Gabe is around. Not that he trusts the fucker, but he can at least be certain that Gabriel needs them alive to do her dirty work.

His first glimpse of Cas isn’t exactly stellar. He’s collapsed against a tree, and it’s Dean’s first chance to see a human body in this weird, shattered dimension. It’s weird because he knows it’s Cas, but it also hardly looks like Cas at all. 

There’s a lot of blue.

Which, okay, is a color Dean’s come to associate with his friend. But to see what looks like a broken tessellation of various shades of blue; cerulean, turquoise, royal, cobalt, cornflower, all weaved together in a tapestry that resembles a stained glass window that someone shattered with a baseball bat. Dean’s flummoxed. Cas isn’t even in the shape of a man, not really. Just a cluster of shards. Flickering in and out of view.

“Cas,” Dean rumbles, and he watches the form in front of him absorb the sound waves he just made, watches it shudder in what looks like pleasure.

Another small set of waves leaves Cas, and Dean feels, rather than hears the wry words, “You’re made of green.” Somehow, Cas manages to be dry even in a million billion tiny pieces. It’s not even that surprising at this point.

“Yeah, well, you look pretty blue there, pal,” Dean says, and he thinks that wrinkle in the air is Cas huffing appreciative laughter. He bends down next to Cas, trying to take all of him in at once, which is impossible.

Dean reaches out- not with his hand, because he doesn’t think he has hands here- to gently poke on of Cas’ bluer bits.

“Is this what you really look like?” Dean asks, “Or like, closer to it?”

There’s a movement that Dean takes to be a shake of the head.

“I don’t have a true form anymore, Dean.”

“You know what I mean.”

Cas appraises himself, even though Dean knows he can’t really see anything. Not the same way Dean sees him, anyways.

“The physics are similar,” Cas says through the waves, “In an extremely rudimentary way. But other than that, no.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” Dean says. Everywhere he touches on Cas makes him tingle. Like a massage chair kind of tingle. The good kind. “You’re looking pretty nifty I’m not gonna lie.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Cas says dryly, and then scatters apart for a moment before recombining.

“Whoa,” Dean says, “Did you just cough?”

“As much as one can cough here, yes,” Cas sighs ruefully. “I can’t seem to pull myself together enough to bring myself back to earth.”

“Yeah, you can thank your esteemed sister for that,” Dean says, feeling his own form ruffle in anger. “Gabe basically used you as bait to get mine and Sam’s asses in gear.”

Dean can hear Cas’ amusement rather than see it this time.

“Her strategy seems to have half worked.”

Dean shrugs, “Yeah, I don’t know where the hell Sam is.”

Cas does the equivalent of cocking his head appraisingly, his atoms all aflutter.

“You don’t quite seem to understand the concentration it takes to cross between dimensions,” Cas says slowly, “ _Especially_ for a human, _even_ when there’s a doorway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I don’t want to upset you…”

“That phrase is a great way to pre-emptively upset me.”

“… but to enter a dimension- even a small one like this- you obviously had great incentive.”

Dean wonders if Cas can see his currently non-existent heart starting to pound.

“Yeah,” he covers, “I came to save your dumbass.”

“Okay,” Cas allows, and before Dean can react, Cas surges forward to press their forms together in what he can only assume is what kissing is to this place. It feels… weird. Electric. There’s no one point of contact, just a solid wall of feeling pressed up against him and inhabiting every space between his atoms. He feels like he just stuck his finger in a wall socket and twisted.

When Cas finally moves back, Dean feels himself stumble.

“Jesus,” he says, and the air is thrumming around both of them now, hot and fast. “Did we- did we just have weird spacey dimensional sex?!”

Cas is trying to supress a smile. Dean can feel it.

“I’m not sure it can be called sex without bodies,” Cas says wryly, “Although, yes, we did briefly inhabit the space the other occupies in this particular universe, if just for a moment.”

“Whoa.”

“Now, if you don’t mind, I am still under Gabriel’s influence. We should probably leave here soon. I can only imagine how worried Sam is.”

“Are you kidding he’s probably chomping at the bit with jealousy that I got through and he didn’t.

“Regardless,” Cas says reasonably.

“Ugh, fine.”

Dean gathers what he can now only think of as Cas’ star stuff in his faux-arms, and thinks his way back into the real world. Technically, they need Sam for this, but Dean’s not really in the mood to wait around. Sam’s huge forehead was probably too big to fit through that particular dimensional doorway, anyway, and Gabriel would probably be too busy making fun of him to bother helping him out.

***

First it’s just Sam and Gabriel in somewhat of a silent standoff, and then suddenly Dean and Cas are there.

Initially, Sam’s not sure what he’s looking at. Dean and Cas seem to have come back from wherever they were in some sort of congealed lump, arms most definitely in places arms aren’t normally supposed to be. H rushes forward to check on them. Before he can get there, however, they pull apart from each other, Cas stumbling, and Dean falling to his knees to start dry heaving.

“What the fuck is this?” Sam turns to shout at Gabe, who’s watching Dean and Cas with beady eyes from a safe distance away.

“ _Seriously_ ,” she says flatly, not even bothering to make eye contact, “They just traveled through dimensions. They’re going to be a little woozy.”  She walks over to where Dean and Cas are sprawled out on the forest floor, and touches Cas’ shoulder briefly, seemingly to lift whatever kind of block she had put on him earlier.

Cas sits up immediately, glaring at Gabriel.

“I hope you know how completely unnecessary that was,” Cas snarls as he moves to Dean’s side, resting a light hand on his back.

“Whatever you say, little bro,” Gabe says distractedly, staring shrewdly between Dean and Cas.  

They stand around in silence, Sam fuming, as Dean continues to hack up a lung. He waves Cas off eventually, struggling to a standing position of his own. He still looks like shit.

“You’re an asshole,” he informs Gabriel, whose face has returned to its default smugness. She brushes her hair off her shoulder with a smirk.

“You obviously don’t understand the huge favor I just did you,” she says snippily.

“Oh, please, do explain.”

Gabe crosses her arms, obviously annoyed, “Okay, fellas, let me drop a little truth bomb on you. When I said you’d need to travel through dimensions, that wasn’t just random conjecture. Please tell me you’ve figured out by now that you’re going to have to break into Metatron’s locked heaven to get the famjam back upstairs.”

Sam and Dean exchange glances, but Cas continues staring at Gabe, thin lipped.

“Yeah,” she says, “That’s what I thought.”

“So then what are you going to do about it?” Dean asks confrontationally. “You said you weren’t gonna help us.”

“I _did_ say that,” Gabe hedges. “Remember last time- with Lucifer and all our friends at the Elysian Fields, I can’t imagine you’d forget- when I said I wasn’t going to help and then did?”

“Yeah,” Dean says cautiously.

“Well this isn’t going to be like last time,” Gabe says shortly, completely serious. “I can give you the popsicle sticks, but you’ve got to build your own replica Statue of Liberty.”

“What does that even-” Dean starts, but Gabe cuts him off again, still uncharacteristically serious at face value.

“We can’t all be god’s favorites,” she says pointedly, gaze lingering on Castiel, “Or, hell, maybe you’re the darlings of the natural world as well. Who really knows at this point. All I know is that I had to fight tooth and nail to worm my way out of a dead dimension, and you can bet your knee highs that I’m not planning on doing it again anytime soon.”

Sam’s forehead creases.

“Wait,” he says disbelievingly, realization dawning on his face, “Are you telling me that you’re _jealous_ of us?”

Gabriel barks out a laugh.

“Try again, kiddo. I literally want to be as far away from you schmoes as possible when all this shit inevitably hits the fan. I’m not just gonna sit around and wait to be your deus ex machina.”

“Then what the hell was the point of all this?” Dean snaps, “This has all just been a big fucking waste of time.”

Gabe steps forward to tap Dean on the forehead.

“Stepping through that doorway wasn’t a waste of time,” she says, weirdly sincere. “What you just did is peanuts compared to springing heaven. When the time comes- and it will- you’ll be thanking me.”

“While you’re sipping mai tais on a beach somewhere in the Bahamas,” Dean snorts, “Yeah, I’ll send a prayer of gratitude your way.”

“And on that cheery note,” Gabriel says, “I think I’ll be taking my leave.”  She snaps her fingers, and suddenly, they’re all back in the alley behind the Tonto Basin police department.

“Two last things,” Gabe says, “Tiny little housekeeping niggles, I promise.” She winks at Dean. “One, it wasn’t me in your noggin, Dean-o. Just a handy little projection trick. You’re a handsome devil, but I’m more of a voyeur.” She waggles her eyebrows. “I like to watch.”

“Eugh,” Dean makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat, and silently reminds himself to bathe in bleach later.

 “And thing two,” Gabe’s gaze swivels to Cas, now, “You need to run.”

Cas’ brow creases. “What?”

“You need to _run_ ,” Gabe repeats, “Like, immediately.” She breathes out harshly, closing her eyes and focusing. “You guys might have been right about something following me,” she says nervously. “Because I’m pretty sure someone’s listening to us right now.”

“What?” Sam leans closer, “Zachariah?” he whispers urgently.

“They can still hear you if you whisper,” Gabe hisses, “Look, I told you guys if it is Zach, then getting back roughed him up something good, and he, uh, doesn’t quite have the finesse I do.” Gabe allows a smirk to slide across her face before getting back to business. “So you have some time. He’ll be slower than before.”

When all three of them continue to stare, wide eyed at Gabriel, she starts flapping her arms at them.

“Get the hell out of here,” she barks, “and for god’s sake, don’t fuck this up.”

Dean blinks, and the next thing he knows, Gabe is gone, and they’re running, because apparently they’re being chased.


	13. Feelings of an Almost Human Nature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title taken from the song 'the trial' by pink floyd (i also highly recommend watching the music video, as a lot of elements in this chapter allude to it. [here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FCMHmDnfD6I&feature=kp) the link. it's nsfw, btw.)

Dean is always happy to piss off Gabriel, but now really wasn’t the time to do it, because they fucked up.

They fucked up so badly.

***

**Six hours earlier**

Dean doesn’t remember the Pink Floyd tape being in the cassette player when they left the Impala in the lot earlier today, but they seem to have more important things to worry about right now.

“So we’re just supposed to take Gabriel’s word for it?” Dean asks skeptically as they hightail it out of town. “While she conveniently gets to flap off to greener pastures?” He shakes his head, “We got played,” he says, taking a hand off the steering wheel to make a resigned gesture, “Gabriel fucking played us like fiddles. I mean, did anyone even _get_ the watch-tickle?”

“The watch tickle?” Cas echoes from the back seat.

“Y’know,” Dean says, frustrated, “That feeling you get when someone’s watching you. Like on the back of your neck.” He squiggles his fingers as if to make a point. “Like that.”

Cas meditates on that for a moment, before saying, deadpan, “I suppose I didn’t feel it, then, no.”

“I didn’t feel it either,” Sam says, “And Gabe is a fucking dick, but I wouldn’t rule it out so fast. I mean, we basically spent years being watched by angels without knowing, so-” he shrugs. “Besides, the bunker is proofed. Once we get back there, we’ll be safe.”

“I feel like we’ve gotten info dump after info dump,” Dean admits, “And somehow we still have no idea what’s going on.”

“We broke the world again and now we have to fix it… again.” Sam surmises.

“Concise,” Cas says approvingly.

***

They’re about six hours out when something under the hood starts smoking, and it immediately sends up red flags in almost every possible direction.

“Fuck,” Dean mumbles, before slowing down and pulling onto the gravel shoulder of the road. They’re on some deserted backroad on the outskirts of Santa Fe, and Dean knows this is a horror movie setup if he’s ever seen one. The sun is setting across the desert and everything feels more orange than usual. Pink streaks the sky all the way across, and if Dean weren’t so concerned with a broken down car and a potential threat hanging over their heads, he might actually be able to appreciate it.

The strains of Pink Floyd’s The Wall (playing for the umpteenth time because no one bothered to change it out) continue to drift out of the car as Dean gets out to examine the damage, Cas trailing behind him. Sam stays in the front seat, looking nervously over his shoulder every two seconds.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” Dean mutters, just loud enough for Cas to hear. “This car should never break down. I mean, _ever_.” He pops the trunk and gets a face full of dark smoke, coughing and trying to wave it away.

“You think it’s ‘them’?” Cas asks, finger quoting.

“I don’t know.” Dean shakes his head, “If it is, I don’t know why they’d bother fucking up _my car-”_ he shouts the last words vehemently to the sky _, “-_ instead of just picking us off. It’s not like we’re their precious, fated vessels anymore.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Dean,” comes a new voice from behind him, and he and Cas both turn around only to come face to- well, _face_ might be a little too generous a term for what Zachariah is now currently sporting.

He can’t help it. Dean feels his jaw drop like Zachariah is his girlfriend descending the stairs of her parents’ split entry house on prom night, and this is the first time he’s seeing her. Instead of wearing a pretty, sparkly dress, however, the usually smartly outfitted Zachariah is sporting a suit that’s ripped half to shreds like he went three rounds with a blender and lost.

But that’s not all. Not by a long shot.

The easiest way that Dean could possibly think to describe him right now is a ventriloquist dummy, and he honestly never thought that description could ever go further than having the hand of god up your ass, but apparently he stands corrected. Zachariah has always been a snake eyed motherfucker, but now he looks at them with _dead_ eyes, like they’re made of porcelain, and Dean’s pretty sure when he blinks it sounds like a rusty door hinge. His cheeks are ruddy, like someone’s been scrubbing at his face with a washcloth and forgot to stop.

At their dumbfounded faces, Zachariah holds his arms out to the side. Dean worries one of them is going to fall off.

“What?” he asks, still sleazy enough that oil is likely to start dripping out the corner of his mouth at any minute, “No hug for long lost Uncle Zach?”

No one says anything. Dean vaguely registers the door on Sam’s side of the car opening as he gets out to join the confrontation. Zachariah tilts his head and smiles, thin lipped. The top half of his face is a dead zone, no emotion leaking out of it whatsoever. Paired with a voice that still somehow manages to make Dean feel dirty, the divide is discombobulating to say the least. Zach’s jaw seems to be the only thing that can move anymore, but it’s more of a vertical movement, like his mouth is stuck between bookends. When he smiles his slimy used car salesman smile, the skin around his cheeks stresses, moments of strain away from splitting.

Finally, Dean manages to say, “You know what they say about Botox,” with an approximation of a twitch of a sarcastic jibe.

Zachariah laughs, but everything about him is wooden, now, where he used to be grease.

“You’re still not funny!” he exclaims, wagging a finger at him, “I missed that about you, Dean. I forgot how good your incompetence makes me feel about myself.”

“Well, you are just as charming and douchey as ever,” Dean says. He turns his torso to Cas, to Sam, who’s leaning against the car with his arms crossed, appealing to them, “Doesn’t Zach look great, guys? Like he hasn’t aged a day since I shoved an angel blade into his smarmy fucking face?” He faces Zachariah again and wiggles his eyebrows, tapping the underside of his chin on the spot where he got Zach, “Does it whistle when the wind blows?”

Zachariah claps his hands together and holds them, shaking his head with a wry grin on his face.

“Oh, Dean,” he says, slowly, chewing on the words like a particularly hearty steak, “Oh, _Dean_ ,” he repeats, this time pityingly, his wry grin stretching into something sinuous and sinister, forcing the skin of his cheeks to crease and crackle and break. He moves towards Dean, and without having to look, Dean knows Sam and Cas immediately ready themselves. Immediately, Zachariah puts his hands up in surrender.

“Whoa there, fellas,” he laughs genially, and Dean feels like someone just slipped an ice cube under his skin and it’s falling down the elevator of his spine, hitting each vertebrae on the way. “I’m not here to banter, but I’m not here to knock some sense into your pretty little heads either.”

“Oh, god,” That’s Sam’s eye rolling tone, “Please don’t tell us you’re here to ‘talk’, too.”

Zachariah looks confused for a moment, but recovers readily.

“Not quite!” he chirps, and somehow during the conversation, he’s edged his way close enough to both Dean and Cas that he’s become the top point on their three corner triangle. “Actually,” he says, “You’ve done a great deal of my work yourself just by doing exactly what you’re doing, Sam.” He smiles, pleased, and Dean’s cheeks hurt, “You always make it so easy for us.”

It’s a stinging blow, Dean can tell. He practically hears Sam wince. A lifetime of being cracked open and examined by enemies more powerful than himself, however, has given Sam a remarkable ability to shake things off, one which Dean is still awe-inspiringly jealous of.

“I did some of _your_ work?” Sam scoffs, stepping forward, “I don’t think so. Never again.”

“Oh, pish,” Zachariah does an ‘aw shucks’ hand gesture, “It’s nothing so obvious as releasing Lucifer from his cage, Sammy. We’re not in the business of beating dead horses, you know.”

“Okay, _what_?” Sam snaps, “What did I do for you? Enlighten me.”

Zachariah nods approvingly.

“You stood over there,” he says simply, and touches a finger each to Dean and Cas’ foreheads.

***

Dean gets the feeling they’re in a cathedral sized room, although he can’t be sure. Everything is blacked out, save for the table he finds himself sitting at, Cas in the chair next to him. They’re both inexplicably wearing suits.

“What the fuck,” Dean mutters, and Cas looks just as flummoxed as he feels. He turns around in his chair to see if there’s anything behind them (there isn’t) and when he turns back, there’s a raised Judge’s bench about twenty feet from the table.

“What the fuck,” Dean repeats, and makes to stand up, but some invisible force shoves him back down again.

“All rise.” Zachariah’s voice booms through the chamber, and it’s like invisible strings are yanking Dean up by the arms into a standing position. He struggles, but it’s of no use. He glances over to see that Cas is very obviously having the same issue.

 There’s the sound of a door opening somewhere in the room although Dean can’t see any evidence of it. Footsteps echo, getting closer. Zachariah appears behind the bench, and Dean almost _almost_ laughs. He’s wearing a fucking _powdered wig_ for Christ’s sake.

He’s also wearing a judge’s robe, which immediately sobers Dean up.

Zachariah doesn’t look at either of them. He sits in the chair behind the desk and starts sorting through imaginary papers, like he hasn’t even noticed them.

Then, suddenly, he disappears. He reappears in the uniform of a bailiff at the foot of the desk, and hands some more imaginary papers over.

“Your honor,” he says, and disappears.

“Thank you,” he says to himself, appearing back on the stand, once again in full judge attire.

“What the fuck,” Dean says again. Loudly.

Zachariah looks at him like he’s an ant he just stepped on. He picks up his gavel and lazily bangs it.

“I hold you in contempt of court,” he drawls, and even though Dean can’t see anyone, he certainly _feels_ the rock hard punch to his gut.

“Dean!” Cas cries, and tries to move, but he’s struggling against the invisible bonds again, barely able to get a foot in either direction.

Zachariah points his gavel at Castiel.

“Would you like to be held in contempt as well?” he asks, eyeing Cas with his dead stare.

Cas stills, but his jaw is too stiff.

Dean’s still bent over and trying to get the wind back that was just knocked out of him, when Zachariah’s voice rings through the courtroom again, although the Zachariah behind the judge’s desk doesn’t open his mouth.

“You may be seated.”

Dean hurriedly sits this time, of his own volition. 

***

Sam’s frantically running one hand through his hair as he dials Charlie’s cell with the other. This whole situation hits a little too close to him as he recalls a very similar situation in which he watched his brother and Castiel disappear to lands unknown while he stands around dumbly and is left to pick up the pieces- or, in certain cases, run away from them.

It takes Charlie one, two, three rings to pick up. Before she can even get a greeting out, Sam is blurting, “Dean and Cas are gone.”

There’s a stunned silence for a moment, Charlie obviously recalibrating, before saying, slowly, “Gone where?”

“I don’t-” Sam turns on the spot, frustrated, rubbing his forehead, “I have no fucking clue.”

“Okay,” Charlie says, immediately getting down to business. There’s a scraping sound like she’s pulling out a chair, and some whispering away from the phone. “Tell me what happened, Sam. I’m now the support to your tech.”

Sam makes a weird sound that’s half groan, half sigh.

“It was Gabriel in Arizona,” he says flatly, even though that has little to do with the situation at hand. He hears Charlie’s surprised intake of breath. “Long gone by now, but stuck around long enough to tell us we were being followed.”

“Jesus,” Charlie mutters, and there’s another burst of whispering away from the phone. Sam assumes Charlie isn’t alone in the room. “Sam, I’m putting you on speaker,” she informs him, “Kevin and Linda are here.”

“We’re going to figure it out, Sam,” Linda says, and Sam can practically hear Kevin nodding along with her.

“Is that all Gabe told you?” Charlie asks, “I mean, _anything_ about what’s going on?”

“We kind of got a tutorial on dimension hopping, if you can believe it,” Sam says, “Dean and Cas figured it out. I didn’t.”

 “And then what, he just _took off_?” Charlie asks, annoyance and perplexity warring in her tone.

“Does that really surprise you?” Sam says, “Took off in her beautiful new lady vessel, because apparently clawing your way out of a dimension full of dead angels isn’t too kind on the original pores.”

“God. Well, what happened after she left?”

Sam sighs. “What else could we do? We high tailed it, not sure if we were actually being followed or not, or if it was just her excuse to run away.”

“She wasn’t lying, then,” Charlie surmises.

“Nope. We’re just outside Santa Fey,” he explains, “and the car breaks down even though the car _never breaks down_ ,” He’s using his hands for emphasis even though there’s no one around to see it, “and Dean gets out to fix it and _naturally_ , Cas is at his side.”

When Sam stops for a moment to angrily chew on his own stupidity, Charlie prompts him with a level, “And then…”

“And then out of the fucking blue _Zachariah_ shows up,” he spits, “looking like he got dragged through a woodchipper. He followed Gabriel out of death through these fucking doorways or something and got hurt pretty bad, I’d say, even though it didn’t stop him from zapping Dean and Cas off to god knows where.”

“Who’s Zachariah?” Linda asks, who obviously hasn’t had time to read all of the books yet. To be fair, there’s a _lot_ of them.

“I’ll explain,” Kevin says, his voice receding into the background as if he’s leading her away to fill her in. There’s a _click_ from the phone, and Charlie’s voice comes back, less echo-y than before. Sam assumes she’s taken him off speakerphone.

“Sam, there’s something you should know,” she says quietly, as if she doesn’t want anyone else listening in. He pictures her leaning into the phone, “I’m still not one hundred percent positive, but I guess it’s kind of the bottom of the ninth here.”

“What is it?”

There’s a deep breath from the other end of line.

“We need to talk about that voicemail Dean left for you the night you set Lucifer free.”

***

Cas is sure the ‘bailiff’ calls Zachariah ‘Worm’, which, admittedly, is an apt name for him. But as to any context, he’s completely lost. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean narrow his eyes in confusion.

Zachariah transitions into a judge again, and maybe Cas’ mind is playing tricks on him, but he does seem more worm-ish.

“Castiel,” Zachariah says formally, interlocking his fingers where they lay on the desk, “Do you understand the charges you’ve been accused of?”

“What? What _charges_?” Cas snaps, and is immediately, violently reminded of his ‘reconditioning’ in heaven after the Novak Family incident. “What’s going on, Zachariah? Why are we here? Why is _Dean_ here?”

“Well,” Zachariah shifts back in his chair and the formality guise is dropped like a curtain falling, “Technically, there’s no charges. Because technically,” his face scrunches up, “this isn’t a courtroom and you’re not on trial.”

“Perfect,” Cas says coolly, making to stand up. “We’re leaving then.”

“Ah ah ah-” Zachariah chides as a heavy invisible hand lays itself on Cas’ shoulder. “I said _technically_.” He unlocks his fingers and holds his hands out in a shrug. “ _Technically_ , I’m not supposed to be alive either, but there you go. Actually, I think I have you guys to thank for making my self-resurrection even possible, so-” he holds his hands out to them in a grandiose gesture. “Thanks!”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Dean spits, and Zachariah rolls his eyes.

“Did you just come in off the playground, Dean? C’mon, where’s that old spicy _zing_? You used to have such a fire in your belly.”

“You want fire?” Dean asks, “Feel free to stick your head in it.”

Zachariah chortles, his wig perched precariously on his head. It slides around with each bob of shoulders, too big. “The answer to all of your questions is either, ‘classified’, or, to your last one regarding Curly here-” he nods at Dean-, “‘that’s a surprise!’”

“Why don’t you just kill us?” Dean asks, “We’re not important to you anymore.”

A strange stillness flits across Zachariah’s face for a moment- a greater amount than his already waxy features show, and Cas wonders if repeating the sentiment back from the road has anything to do with it. Maybe Dean’s onto something.

“Well,” Zachariah says, recovering quickly, “Killing Castiel seems to be just about impossible these days, if his multiple resurrections are anything to go by. Even as a filthy, piddly human, I doubt a slashed throat would keep you down long,” he continues passive aggressively, eyes now trained back on Cas. “So we’re going to have to go about this a more… unorthodox way.”

“And trial without jury is what you mooks settled on?” Dean asks skeptically, scoffing. “So, what, you’re going to ship Cas off to _angel jail_?”

“Heaven is closed right now,” Cas says to Dean before Zachariah can, cottoning on. “They can’t hold me there.” He glances up at the desk, face impassive. “I assume we’re in some pithy, cubicle sized dimension at the moment that you intend to lock me in at the end of all this.”

“Castiel!” Zachariah exclaims, mock-offended, “You must know it’s not up to me to decide.” He gestures to a spot about fifty years away from Dean and Cas’ table, where a jury bench now sits. It’s empty. “It’s theirs,” he explains, blinking vapidly.

Dean and Cas exchange a look.

“Now,” Zachariah says, his voice brisk and official once again, “Since all your questions have been answered-”

“-They haven’t,” Dean interrupts.

“- I think it’s time for the trial to begin,” Zachariah continues as if he never heard the interruption. He looks down at Castiel. “Are you ready for the first witness?” he asks, and Cas just stares coldly at him until he starts to laugh. “Okay, okay, it was a trick question. I don’t actually care if you’re ready.”

“No opening statements?” Dean asks churlishly, Cas assumes just to piss Zachariah off.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Zachariah says, “If you wanted proper court procedure you could always respond to the summons you got when you were nineteen for credit card fraud in the state of Ohio.”

Dean blanches. “How the fuck did you even-”

Zachariah makes a rude sound and says, “It was once my job to know everything about you, Dean. As much as I may have wished, dying didn’t erase all the soggy little nuggets of information I now have on you.”

“And we’re all truly sorry for your hardships,” Dean says.

“Okay. How’s this for an opening statement?” Zachariah clears his throat. “Castiel, you had a job to do and you didn’t do it. As a result, you derailed the apocalypse that’s been fated to happen since the beginning of time, and set off a chain reaction of events that lead to even your closest friends- aka the ‘good guys’- calling for your demise. I mean, hey, you may have stopped my version of the Superbowl twice,-” he chuckles the kind of chuckle that spits acid, “but I promise I’m not biased. You genuinely fucked up, Castiel, and today we’re gathered to make sure you pay for your mistakes.”  He spreads his arms. “Does that make it clear enough?”

Cas can see Dean’s composure cracking even more, can practically hear the insults churning in his mind. Before Dean can open his mouth again, however, Cas touches two fingers to his thigh under the table. Without taking his eyes off Zachariah, he shakes his head minutely. _Leave it_.

Dean narrows his eyes and swallows hard, but nods. Cas takes his fingers away, and even though he tried to be subtle, he assumes Zachariah caught that, judging by the knowing glint in his eyes.

“ _Well_ ,” he says once again, with greater significance this time. “I think it really is time to call the first witness.”

Cas thinks about the brutally substantial list of beings of all species he’s screwed over in the last couple years, and suppresses a shudder. Assuming he can pull it off, Zachariah has quite a selection of people, both dead and alive, he could call on.

“Are you wondering who it is?” If they could, Cas is sure Zachariah’s eyes would be narrowed in faux-sympathy. “Long list, kiddo.”

“Just get on with it,” Cas snaps, feeling his stomach squirm uncomfortably.

Zachariah smiles like a predator, and for a moment, it looks like he has more teeth than any human mouth should.

“Bring in the first witness!” he shouts into the blackness of the room. His voice doesn’t echo this time, which disturbs Cas. It’s like the darkness has become occupied in the past couple of minutes, leaving no room for the sound to bounce around.

Someone walks by Cas, making their way to the witness stand. Her sleeve brushes his shoulder on the way, and he feels his heart drop into his stomach.

“The first witness, out of the many, _many_ options I had,” Zachariah makes sure to inform them, “is one of our own dearly departed friends, Anna Milton.”

***

Sam listens to Charlie talk about conspiracy theories where heaven and hell were actually teamed up all along, and once she’s done, Sam is of two minds.

One, racketing around in his head like church bells on Sunday morning; Dean didn’t leave that voicemail.

Two; the more Charlie talks, the less it sounds like a conspiracy theory.

It’s not like Sam can really comment on the first thing. It’s been years, and assuming this is ever going to get brought up again, Charlie isn’t the person he should be talking to.

The second thing, however…

“I don’t know if I’m just resigned to how far this has gone off the rails or not,” Sam says, “but that doesn’t actually sound too farfetched. I mean, Abaddon talked about how hell was just a part of heaven, anyways. Geographically, in a weird, dimensional way, I’m sure it wouldn’t be too difficult.”

“Right?” Charlie agrees, “Imagine how easy it is to team up on the down low when everyone else is literally brought up on stories of how much you hate each other. Both sides wanted the apocalypse. It would only make sense.”

“Nothing about this makes any sense,” Sam says.

“Okay, well, it makes as much sense as it can, under the circumstances,” Charlie amends.

“But with all that said, how is it supposed to help us find Dean and Cas?” Sam asks.

“Well,” Charlie hedges, “If this turns out to be true, we might be able to figure out where they went based on Zachariah’s allies.”

“The majority of the angels who supported the apocalypse- anyone who would have allied with Zachariah- are dead. Cas, ah, saw to that when he was in charge.”

There’s a brief lull where it sounds like Charlie is rethinking, and then she suggests, “Somewhere in hell?”

 “Even if they were allied, I don’t know how much time they’d spend in each other’s pockets,” Sam admits, “Zachariah especially.”

“Well, we’re working on the assumption that not everyone is in on this little _huge giant conspiracy_ , right?” Charlie checks, “Like, the henchman all still think they’re fighting for their respective realm’s cause?”

“I would say,” Sam confirms, thinking back to that tussle in the barn with Cas and Uriel and Ruby way back when. The disdain was pretty clear. “Abaddon certainly didn’t seem too pleased at the idea, although she never said outright they were working together. She hinted as much, though, now that I think about it.”

“So they would probably want to be somewhere secluded. Where neither side could find them.”

“Probably.”

Charlie is silent, chewing on the information.

“Didn’t you say Gabriel was teaching you guys how to dimension hop?” Charlie asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says slowly, not sure how that’s relevant.

“And Zachariah is like, messed up, right? From following Gabriel back?”

“Yeah…”

“Well then maybe-” Charlie starts, but before he can hear the rest of the sentence, the phone is ripped away from his ear.

“I don’t know who this is,” Gabriel says into the phone, “But I like you. However, I need to throw Sam into another dimension so he can save your dynamic duo, so unfortunately we’ll have to remain unacquainted. Ciao.” She hangs up the phone and turns to Sam with a shit eating grin on her face.

“I’m back!” she announces.

***

Anna doesn’t look share the same kind of puppet features that Zachariah is now sporting, much to Castiel’s relief. She’s wispy, though. Almost translucent. Cas can just barely see the outline of the back of the chair she’s sitting in. She’s staring at Castiel, face neutral, although her gaze is laser focused.

The last time he saw her was in a warehouse at 225 Industrial in some Midwestern state where she tried to convince him that killing Sam Winchester was the best way to stop the apocalypse.

Before that, of course, he had turned her in, and she had been taken back to heaven for ‘reconditioning’. Obviously, it did its job. It certainly worked wonders on him, once upon a time.

“I feel like it would be tacky to have you swear on the bible,” Zachariah muses, interrupting his train of thought. Anna turns to look at him, now, expression non-changing. “How about we get to the good stuff, huh?” he smiles down at her. “Anna. The schoolmaster. Nice to see you again.”

In his peripheral vision, Castiel sees Dean do a double take, confusion flitting across his face at Zachariah’s greeting.

Anna nods at him.

“Hello, Zachariah,” she says gravely, flickering from view for a moment.

“Oops,” Zachariah says, “The signal doesn’t seem to be too strong once it has to work multi-dimensionally. That’s too bad.”

When Anna turns to look at Cas again, her face is the same, emotionless mask.

“Hello, Castiel,” she greets with a slight nod.

Castiel has to swallow hard before he manages to incline his head. “Anna.”

When her eyes flick to Dean, they soften infinitesimally, but she doesn’t say anything. After all, Dean may have played a part in her death, but Cas was the one who sent her back upstairs. It’s no surprised she would be angrier with him.

“So, the interesting thing about you two,” Zachariah jumps in gleefully, “Is that what _you’re_ upset about-” he gestures at Anna, “-and what _I’m_ upset about, are actually two completely different things.” He straightens in his chair. “See, what I’m upset about is all of your appearances in the series up to When the Levee Breaks-” At Dean’s horrified look, Zachariah chuckles. “Oh, yes, I’ve read them. I practically oversaw them in production. I figured, why let the fruits of my labor go to waste?” he wrinkles his nose. “We all make mistakes,” he says dismissively. “I hear there’s a new author for season six, however. Perhaps I should pick it up again.” His eyes flick to Cas, “Nothing quite as blasphemous as proclaiming oneself the new god, if the spoilers I’ve heard are true.”

“Shut the hell up,” Dean snaps before Cas can say anything.

“I’m neither confirming nor denying,” Zachariah says chummily, before interlocking his fingers again. “Okay. Back to business. You,” he points at Anna, “Feel betrayed by dear old Castiel here for turning you back over to heaven. You’re also angry because the reconditioning you received whilst in heaven culminated in you trying to murder Sam Winchester. Which- don’t feel too bad. We’ve all had ‘kill Sam Winchester’ on our to-do lists at one point or another.” His eyes narrow dangerously as he turns to look at Dean. “Right, Dean?” he says pointedly.

A muscle is ticking in Dean’s jaw, and for a moment, no one says anything. Cas knows there was a time, before he was in the picture, that John Winchester told his eldest son he should kill his youngest son, should he be unable to save him from the demon blood running through his veins.

“How about you take your fucking mouth and you shove it up your-” Dean starts, a little late, even for him, and Cas wants nothing more than to reach out, for just a moment. He knows Zachariah is watching now, however, and refuses to give him anymore ammo.

Zachariah holds out a hand, rendering Dean silent.

“I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been eagerly waiting to do that,” he admits. “Your voice will be back momentarily, but I strongly urge you not to use it.” He leans back in his chair and looks between Anna and Castiel. “No more interruptions,” he says with a wave of his hand, “Converse.”

Cas clears his throat before he can properly look Anna in the eye, and even then, he feels his stomach trying to turn itself inside out.

“Anna…” he says, pained, and trails off, because he knows there’s really nothing he can say. He may as well have killed her himself.

Anna looks on stonily.

“I find it interesting,” she says, “that less than a year ago, you found yourself under another certain kind of reconditioning, and yet somehow, you’ve gotten yourself excused for it, whereas I had to die for it.”

The thing is, she’s not entirely right.

Cas is _never_ going to get excused (or allow himself to be excused) for some of the things he did while under Naomi’s influence. Keeping tabs on the Winchesters. Killing Samandriel. The crypt. Even though he knows it’s impossible, he’s never going to stop trying to make up for it.

Of course, Anna now doesn’t even have that chance, dead as she is.

“I’ll never be able to rectify that,” Cas says, plainly honest. “There’s nothing I’ll be able to do that will make things better. I’m so sorry.”

Anna shakes her head slightly, the hard line of her mouth loosening, just a little. She inclines her head towards Zachariah. “I don’t know how this crusty old bastard managed to get out before me,” she says wryly, “But he made sure the door is long inaccessible.”

Cas feels his own smile cross his face, but it’s as fleeting as a sunshower, and hurts more than getting caught in a hailstorm.

“This isn’t something that can be fixed,” Anna says softly, getting back to the topic at hand, “I know what’s been going on in the last few years- I’ve kept up on the gossip on the other side,” she admits, “And you’ve made some mistakes, Cas. Some big ones. But you have the luxury of still being alive to do what you can to make amends.” Her gaze turns assessing. “You’ve changed,” she observes. “They never talked about that part.”

Cas bows his head in agreement.

“I like to think I’ve been humbled,” he says, “But I’m finding the claim debatable.”

“I’m not here to refute that,” Anna says dryly.

“No,” Zachariah cuts in, obviously annoyed, now, “You’re here to tell Castiel that he’s an absolute disaster, which you’ve already done. So, thank you for your time.” He snaps his fingers, and Anna disappears.

Zachariah relaxes.

“How does that feel?” he asks, leaning over the judge’s desk, “Now that you’ve had your own shot at being human, to know you’ve condemned another who’s gone through the same thing?” he counts on his fingers, “Angel, human, reconditioning buddies. You both fell. And yet,” Zachariah smiles like a dead snake, “You’re the one still alive.” He retreats behind his desk again, still smiling like the cat that got the cream, and with his limited lower facial muscles, it’s disturbing enough that Cas feels a tickle up and down his spine. “I suppose you have connections and all,” he says significantly, gaze darting between Dean and Cas. “You’ve spent so much time around the Winchesters some of their immortality seems to have rubbed off on you.” He smirks, “Among other things.”

Both Cas and Dean fix Zachariah with twin glares, but neither say anything. Cas is sure at this point any attempt to deny it would just make it seem more apparent to Zachariah.

“What, not so chatty now?” he asks innocently. He shrugs. “Fine, then. We’ve had a change in program, just so you know. We had to switch the witnesses around for-” he twiddles his fingers in the open air, “- reasons,” he comes up with. “So, Castiel, the next person who thinks you’re absolutely fantastic and then got screwed over by you?” He claps his hands once, and a figure appears on the stand.

Really, Castiel should have known.

“What the hell?” Dean says, turning to look at Cas.

Before Cas can even open his mouth, a sardonic, accented voice speaks.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Balthazar says, already looking thoroughly put out, “You never told him?”

***

 “You fucking took off, you asshole,” Sam snarls. “You left us for Zachariah.”

“Left Dean and Cas for Zachariah,” she corrects. “Besides, are you missing the part where I’m here right now?” Gabe asks, “If you haven’t noticed, ‘coming back’ is kind of my thing.”

“What do you want.”

Gabriel looks at Sam like she’s genuinely worried for him.

“Weren’t you just listening to my conversation with my anonymous phone buddy? I’m here to hurl you into an alternate dimension to save your brother and my brother.”

Sam crosses his arms skeptically.

“And you can’t do this yourself _because_ …?”

“Uh, _hello_ , if Zachariah knows I’m around, I’m pig chow, you got it? My plan is to throw you in and then haul ass outta here, probably to another continent. Another galaxy, preferably.”

“So this is a one way ticket.”

“I literally just taught you how to use the doorways to your advantage, kiddo. You’ll make it work.”

“Okay,” Sam snaps, exasperated, “Any suggestions on what to do once I’m in there?”

Gabe shrugs. “Do whatever you were planning on doing once you got in there before I showed up.” She cracks her knuckles dramatically. “Ready?”

“Not rea-”

“See ya, Sammy.”

Gabriel snaps her fingers, and the world disappears around Sam.

***

Dean turns to Cas, eyes wide.

“Didn’t tell me what?” he asks, but there’s a lilt in his voice that suggests he’s already put two and two together. Zachariah watches like a hawk, obviously enjoying the show.

“Oh, come on,” Balthazar complains, “I don’t rate high enough on your murder list to warrant even a mention to these buffoons?”

The corners of Cas that haven’t already flooded with shame from his encounter with Anna are now well and truly drenched. He feels cold all over, boxed in on all sides. If he still had the ability, he knows he would have transported out of here by now. He used it as an escape mechanism for too long as an angel, and actually having to see conflicts through is one of the more unenjoyable aspects of humanity.

He now believes being caught in a lie is making its way up his list very fast. At the very least, he’s not surrounded by holy fire this time- Not that that would do anything, of course.

“I mean, it’s not even like we liked the dick,” Dean is muttering, but apparently even dead, Balthazar’s hearing is still angelic because he tuts and rolls his eyes.

“It’s not like you lot were ever right peaches to be around, either,” he informs them haughtily.

Dean ignores him, eyes still trained on Cas.

“I assume this was back during the whole souls debacle?” he asks quietly, “When we had just assumed Balthazar had fucked off and was chilling out on a beach somewhere?”

“I take that personally,” Balthazar offers, but still, he’s ignored.

 Cas shakes his head morosely.

“I was so far gone at that point,” he says, voice hollow, “It wasn’t long before you and Bobby found us in that warehouse.”

Dean scrubs a hand over his jaw.

“Goddamn,” he says to himself, shaking his head slightly. “Fuck.”

“No kidding,” Balthazar grumbles. “Actually, if I may,” he says, returning his gaze to Cas, “I have to say, Cassie, you look like shit.” He considers. “Then again, I’m the dead one here.”

“Balthazar,” Cas starts, feeling like his throat wants to shred itself, “I’m so sorr-”

Balthazar holds up a hand.

“Bygones,” he says glibly, “Although you’ll have to forgive me if I’m a bit unconsciously chilly towards you. You did stick an angel blade through my heart, after all. You _literally_ stabbed me in the back, you know.”

“I’m aware,” Cas says, wondering just how much Dean’s perception of him has changed in the last while. Wondering, for the millionth time, if killing Balthazar, killing so many of his siblings, if turning Anna in; wondering if there could ever be possible redemption for all the atrocities he’s committed.

So far, he’s figured no. Those actions are irreversible. He can’t undo any of them.

“Oh, don’t be too hard on yourself, Cas,” Balthazar says blithely, his watery eyes more transparent than usual, “I mean, sure, you kind of went off the rails a little at the end there, slaughtering folk willy-nilly and all, but you did it with the best of intentions, right?” At Cas’ silence, he adds a more, uncertain, “… Right?”

“Honestly, Balthazar, I don’t even know anymore,” he admits, and he thinks that this is the first time he’s been appropriately honest with himself in a long time. A small part of his mind marvels at the fact that they can even be having this conversation with a snake like Zachariah present, but he’s finding that these things are much more important than the smug expression on Zachariah’s face and whatever ‘verdict’ he no doubt already has planned for him. This is just rubbing salt in the wound, Cas is almost certain.  “So much was wrong back then,” he continues, “And I felt like I could fix it, I felt like I _had_ to fix it,” he bites the inside of his cheek for a moment, trying to collect himself. “I think I acquired some fairly extensive tunnel vision along the way.”

“You had blinders as big as Ben himself, mate.”

“I lost sight of more important things, yes.” He doesn’t mean to glance at Dean as he says it, but he only catches himself on the backswing of his look. Dean doesn’t meet his eye. In fact, he looks like he’s fairly far away at the moment.

“By the way,” Balthazar says, seemingly doing Cas a favor to lighten the mood if only for a moment, “You’re looking as lovely as ever, Zachariah. I’m really digging the whole Pinocchio-vibe. Very tongue in cheek.”

“It’s so _interesting_ ,” Zachariah comments easily, ignoring Balthazar, gaze like he’s been circling his prey for hours and is finally ready to pounce, his target completely unawares, “That despite the lives you’ve taken, Castiel, despite all the livelihoods you’ve destroyed, everyone still seems to look up to you like you’re some kind of Second Coming.” He puts a finger to the dip in his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s it,” he muses, “maybe your punishment is that you never actually _get_ punished. You’re forced to live with the reality of your actions every day, knowing there’s nothing you can possibly do to make up for them.” He laughs delightedly, “That must be it,” he surmises. “That _must_ be it.” He holds a hand out to Castiel, “But don’t worry, son. I’ll make sure to keep the ball rolling in terms of punishment. You’re so good at self-flagellation, I’m probably going to have to get creative.”

“I’m all for harassing dear Cas, here,” Balthazar says conversationally, waving a hand, “Because I sure as hell don’t want to excuse the part where he stuck a blade through my upper torso, but _really_ , Zachariah, is this necessary?”

“Your continued presence here isn’t, that’s for sure,” Zachariah informs him cheerfully. “Say goodbye to mother, Castiel.”

Balthazar disappears.

Cas thinks, quite out of nowhere, he’s certain, _I’m over the rainbow_. He looks to his left, and a barred window has appeared. Through it, he can only see more blackness.

“Holy shit,” he hears Dean mumble behind him, but it sounds more like a revelation than an exclamation of surprise.

Zachariah follows their gaze, and takes a moment to school his features before coughing delicately and saying, “These dimensions. Always so fiddly.”

He bangs his gavel.

“Okay, fellas! One more witness.” He glances at Dean, “Excuse me for a moment, Dean, but I think I’m going to have to take a trip down memory lane here. Do you recall your monkeyish behavior a couple of years ago in our green room? You were yelling and I was explaining oh so calmly our plans for the fate of the world, et cetera, you remember, right?”

“The only memory of you I haven’t burned from my brain is the one where I stabbed you in the face.”

“Oh,” Zachariah holds a palm adroitly to his chest. “I was just going to remind you of our conversation. Where we spoke about your upcoming role in the apocalypse, correct?”

Dean glares at him warily.

“Well, Dean, I’m here to tell you that it’s your turn again!” he announces like a ring leader, minus the part where he holds his arms out in a grandiose gesture, but Cas suspects it’s only because of the confining space behind the desk. He sniffs, “We skipped Sam this time round, but somehow I think he’ll live.” He eagerly gestures Dean towards the witness bench. “C’mon, Dean! I know we have a lot to talk about with regards to good old Castiel, here.”

“Fuck you,” Dean spits, “ _Fuck_ you.”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” Zachariah quotes smugly. “C’mon, Dean, we all know you’re going to get up on this witness stand and sell Cas out like he’s a two dollar prostitute. It’s just a matter of how much _persuasion_ you need.”

“ _Coercion_ , you mean,” Cas snaps, but his stomach has started to riot again, and he can hear his lungs inflating and deflating at a disturbing rate. He wonders if his body is shutting down. He wonders if it’s reached its maximum emotional capacity. Dean looks just as awful he feels, and Cas thinks, _this is my fault. Cas_ did this to them.

Zachariah shakes his head. “I don’t think you understand,” he says, voice truly cold for the first time since this whole thing started, “I practically _thought_ myself back to life, and you think you can say _no_ to me?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean stands abruptly, chair clattering to the floor under him. He makes his way around the table, staring at Zachariah with fire in his eyes. “I figured it out, you asshole, and trust me, if you had to stoop to ripping off concept albums from the 70’s, then, pal,” he laughs cruelly, and Cas is so completely lost, “You are not _near_ as powerful as you’d like us to believe.”

***

Zachariah’s face goes very, very quiet.

Then, slowly, he leans forward until he’s practically towering over Dean, who glares resolutely back at him.

“The interesting thing about the power of the mind,” Zachariah says, dangerously quiet, “the power of thought, coupled with a few, nifty, interdimensional tricks I picked up along the way? It’s not about the environment, son. You just have to _believe_.” He arcs his hand like he’s framing an imaginary movie title. “For example,” he snaps his fingers, and it feels like something in Dean’s brain fizzes and pops out, fire roaring into his synapses and igniting his grey matter like its been waiting on the other side of Zachariah’s finger snap the whole time. “Are you sure you were in hell, Dean? Are you sure you aren’t _still_ in hell?” he simpers, as Dean starts to cough, feels the blood choking him, the kiss of burnt steel on his skin, “Or are you just weak of constitution?” he finishes, laughs, and then watches intently as Dean collapses to his knees, chair clattering behind him.

“Dean!” Cas shouts, but it sounds like an echo, like he’s at the end of a very, very long tunnel. His footsteps ricochet off the walls, and Dean thinks, _he’s not going to get here in time_.

“You see,” Zachariah continues casually, and for some reason, his voice is clear as a bell in Dean’s head as everything else falls away, “We just needed you in an environment in which you’d break. I mean, _sure,_ the seal specifically said hell, but I mean really,” he holds his hands out in appeal, and says, philosophically, “what _is_ hell?” he shrugs, “Or, call it thrift store lore. Whatever suits your budget. It’s not like they were set in stone.” He laughs, “We’re not Moses, for god’s sake.”

Dean feels Cas crouch beside him, wrap an arm around his back, but he’s too far gone to be able to use it as an anchor. He’s being pulled far, far out to sea now, far enough that he’s going to drown in the flames.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Cas spits out, and if Dean weren’t spiralling down into memories of the forty worst years of his life, he’d probably laugh. Cas has never dropped a serious f bomb before.

“Dean,” Cas says urgently, hand pressing firmer into his back, though Dean’s having trouble distinguishing between that and the butterfly touch Alistair has there as well. “Dean, it’s not real,”- (“Oh, that’s for sure!” Zachariah chimes in cheerily.) “Dean, come back to me. Please, Dean, come back to me.”

“He hasn’t gone anywhere, though,” Zachariah says gleefully, “Don’t you get it, Cas? Dean Winchester is and always has been a product of what other people make of him. He’s _malleable_.”

Alistair (or maybe Cas) presses a palm to Dean’s clammy cheek, and he almost vomits.

“I mean, hey, I’m not going to argue that the kid isn’t made of fairly strong stuff,” Zachariah admits, “but all you have to do is press the right lobes, and boom! Anyone becomes a quivering mess on the floor.”

“Why are you doing this?” Cas begs, and is he underwater? When did that happen? “What do you want from him?”

“It’s not _him_ I want anything from,” Zachariah says, “But to be fair, I also don’t really need anything from _you_ , either.”

A hand gently circles Dean’s wrist, and he feels it turn red hot, like it’s just been dipped in a furnace. He screams, and rips himself out of Alistair’s reach.

“Why are you doing this?” Cas/Alistair shouts again, and Dean’s not sure if it’s directed at him or Zachariah.

“Reality is _broken_ ,” Zachariah hisses, “thanks to your merry band of brothers, you’ve sent us careening off course. Once again, I’m left cleaning up a Winchester’s mess.”

“That doesn’t-” Dean barely hears over the roar of hell, over the clanking of chains and the cooking flesh. There’s a cool patch somewhere near his shoulder, and he clings to it desperately.

“Everything is broken,” Zachariah says, “I don’t answer to anyone, anymore, Castiel, and trust me when I say, you have no idea how eager I am to finally get to squish you two like the bugs you are. Getting to relive your greatest hits and getting to see how broken _you_ are, though? Well, that was just an extra special something for me.”

“We both want the same thing, Zachariah,” Cas pleads, or maybe Alistair promises. “We both want to fix it.”

“You don’t even know the meaning of the word,” Zachariah snaps, “ _I’m_ going to get this whole show back on the road. I’m going to finish the job that you pissants always made so goddam hard for me to do.”

The hand moves from his shoulder to his cheek, and for one wild moment, it’s Alistair’s fingers that are caressing his face and Cas’ fist that’s slamming into it. A sound like a wounded animal escapes his throat, and he wonders if he’s choking on actual blood or his sudden intake of air. It’s not a sob, but it sounds like one.

“Cas,” he mumbles, reaching out blindly, scared, trying to find anything solid he can get purchase on. “Cas, please.” He tries to convince himself that it’s not real, that Cas’ is a name he’s allowed to say like that.

“Dean, Dean,” Cas says quietly, over and over, and Dean _holds_ onto that. Tries to use it as a port in the storm. “Please come back,” he murmurs into Dean’s hair, and the fact that Dean can even catalogue that is so important.

He can feel the floor under him again. He’s in a heap on it.

“Cas,” he says, and grips the sleeve of Cas’ shirt so tight his knuckles turn white.

And then there’s the sound of a bottle rocket going off somewhere, and the entire world ripples.

***

The first thing Sam sees is Dean in a pile on the floor, holding onto Cas for dear life.

The next thing he sees, (and really, the only other thing to look at) is Zachariah sitting in a judge’s chair.

So they’re on trial. Great. Been there done that.

Everyone is looking at Sam, and he decides to forego a witty comment in favor of hurrying over to Dean and Cas.

“Sam!” Zachariah announces faux-breathlessly, hand held over his breast “I completely didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Dean, Cas,” Sam says, and Cas’ eyes are frantic, Dean’s completely out of commission, “What the hell?”

“It was Gabriel, wasn’t it?” Zachariah asks the room at large, “I’m going to smother that little bastard,” he says thoughtfully, after no one answers him.

“Are you guys okay?” Sam asks urgently.

“No,” Cas says shortly. Then, “we need to get out of here.”

“I know,” Dean says, garbled and rubbing his eyes.

“Well, we just need to… open the door, right?” Sam asks. “That’s all Gabriel would say.”

“Oh, I knew it,” Zachariah says with relish, pouncing on the name eagerly.

“You don’t think I’ve tried already?” Cas asks, “I don’t understand how, but this dimension is sealed differently. I can’t open a door.”

Dean has his head in his hands, and says something mushily that Sam doesn’t catch.

“Why the hell would Gabriel throw me into a dimension we can’t get out of?”

“Because it’s _Gabriel_ ,” Cas snarls.

Dean lifts his head determinedly.

“You can’t open it because it’s not a door,” he says harshly, “It’s a wall. _The_ Wall.”

Sam and Cas exchange glances before both looking at Dean.

“ _What_?”

“I think it’s time you all had a seat again,” Zachariah says, and there’s enough underlying panic in his voice that what Dean just said must have pinged some kind of warning bell in Zachariah’s head.

Their chairs slide forward silently and Sam feels invisible, rough hands manhandling him to his feet. There’s no chair for him, so he gets to stand awkwardly to the side while his hands are tied.

“Apologies, Sam,” Zachariah says, “But after all, you were the one who crashed our dinner party, so really, it’s your faux-pas.”

“Can it, Zach,” Dean snaps, sounding terribly exhausted. He’s pale. “Give it up, I figured it out.”

“Are you sure that answer is real?” Zachariah asks bitterly.

“God, stop talking,” Dean begs, “Because I somehow doubt you can’t shut me up anymore. What, did the hell-o-vision tire you out as much as it did me?”

“Not even close,” Zachariah says, but Dean just smiles a tall smile.

“Ah,” he says, triumphant. Then, simply, “Tear down the wall.”

All around them, an ominous rumble sounds.

Sam feels his eyes widen.

“Dean,” he says, more of a question than anything.

“It’s the fucking song, Sam,” he hisses, “Pink Floyd. The Trial. Anna was the schoolmaster. Balthazar was the mother. I was-” his forehead creases. “It doesn’t matter. Both of you, just follow my lead.”

He looks up to Zachariah, who’s staring at them all with growing consternation.

“What,” Dean taunts, “Dead guy didn’t have enough mojo for a proper interdimensional courtroom? Needed a little help from good old Pink Floyd, huh?” he clucks his tongue, “Tsk. You’re getting flabby.” He fixes Zachariah a look full of pure hatred, and then bellows, loud enough that Sam feels himself flinch, “ _Tear down the wall_!”

Another rumble.

Dean nudges Cas beside him, who’s been looking on completely bemused the entire time, and gestures wildly at Sam.

“Tear down the wall!” he yells again, continuing to nudge Cas. “Come _on_ ,” he says, as the rumbling increases. Sam can feel it vibrating up through his shoes. “It’s the end of the song,” Dean explains, “End the song, end the hallucination, let’s _go_.”

Sam and Cas exchange another look before joining Dean in the next cry of, “Tear down the wall!”

With all three of their voices in tandem, the reverberating increases tenfold, and what can only be the sound of dimensional walls cracking starts piercing Sam’s ears.

“ _Tear down the wall_!”

Zachariah spares them all one last look of pure contempt, before vanishing, judge’s bench and chairs and desk and all. It’s just the three of them, alone in the dark.

“ _Tear down the wall_!”

The darkness starts visibly crumbling around them. Sam doesn’t know how he knows it, because behind the darkness there’s just _more_ of it, but he does.

“ _Tear down the wall_!”

The whole dimension _trembles_ , a section to Sam’s right collapses, revealing what looks like an entire country’s worth of population stashed away in cages.

“What the-”

“ _Tear down the wall_!”

It looks like people in the cages. On a couple of them, Sam can see tattoos similar to the ones djinn have. A couple of them flicker in and out, like they’re on an old news reel.

He blinks, and they’re gone.

He blinks again, and the dimension has shattered around them, leaving them squinting in the morning light on a backroad just outside Santa Fey.

***

“Bet you can’t believe my knowledge of classic rock just saved the day,” Dean quips as they all climb back into the Impala, but he’s not even smiling when he says it.

***

Almost a day later, after finally waking up, Cas stands outside Dean’s door in the bunker hallway, afraid to knock.

Frankly, he doesn’t know if Dean wants to see him- if he’ll ever want to see him again after what he learned.

He’s outside for ten minutes, at least, before Sam happens upon him.

“Go,” Sam tells him gently, inclining his head towards the door, “He needs someone right now.”

“You could go,” Cas says. “In fact-” he takes a step away, “You should go.”

Sam shakes his head.

“He doesn’t listen to me,” Sam says. “He listens to you, though.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Well, he listens to you more than he listens to me, at least.”

“I don’t know if I agree with that,” Cas says.

Sam shakes his head slowly in disbelief.

“Cas,” he says pointedly, “I’m telling you that I know.”

He probably should have figured.

He’s never actually thought about how he would feel about Sam knowing. He realizes it doesn’t change anything. Especially when there’s other, more pressing matters to worry about right now.

“I’m also telling you,” Sam continues, “That I don’t care, or, like, you have my blessing or whatever… Not that I’m sure _you_ care about that, either way.”

“It won’t change how I feel,” Cas says honestly.

“I know,” Sam says, and claps him on the shoulder before leaving.

Cas takes a deep breath, and knocks.

“Yeah,” Dean says gruffly from inside the room, and Cas eases open the door. He stands in the doorway uncertainly, eyeing Dean nervously.

“The last thing I mean to do is make this about me,” Cas says, “But I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me.”

Dean stares at him for a moment, seemingly uncomprehending. He’s sitting on his bed, a skinny, well-worn book sitting upside down on the covers next to him.

“Close the door,” he says, and Cas does.

Dean stands up, but doesn’t move any further.

“You saw,” he says lowly, “What I did in hell, Cas.” He licks his lips. “You _saw_ what I did to all those people. And yet you still-” he swallows heavily, “You still…” he gestures between them. “ _This_ ,” he finishes poorly.

Cas feels completely blindsided.

“Dean…” he doesn’t mean to trail off as well, but he just can’t comprehend what’s happening. “Dean it was never about that. _That_ was never a factor in _this_.”

Dean sits back down, rubbing his forehead.

“It _was_ real, wasn’t it?” he asks quietly. “Hell, I mean.”

Cas’ mouth goes tight with concern. He moves to sit beside Dean on the bed, and tries not to be surprised when Dean leans his head on Cas’ shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he says to Cas’ shoulder, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world for Cas to wrap an arm around Dean’s back.

Cas says nothing, and presses a kiss to the top of Dean’s head.


	14. Heaven is a Place on Earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title taken from the belinda carlisle song of the same name

Abaddon said to look up, so they look up.

“You think Metatron has a spell we can use to fix all this?” Dean asks, somewhat skeptically.

Cas shrugs. “The tablet had a spell that can lock every angel out of heaven. I can only imagine there’s a spell somewhere out there that can also fix holes in the universe,” he tilts his head, “Think of it as interdimensional spackle.”

“Well, aren’t you just Mr. DIY.”

“If anyone has that spell, it’ll be Metatron. Or, at least, it’ll be in the documents I’m sure he’s now claimed as his own. He _is_ the recordkeeper, after all.”

Sam, who’s been quiet for most of the conversation, clears his throat.

“We should do it,” he says, voice sure. “It’s not like we have a whole lot of options at this point.”

“Perfect,” Cas says crisply, “Then I’ve got some research to do.” Before Dean or Sam can say anything, he turns on his heel and has left the kitchen.

Sam gives Dean a weird look.

“Is he mad at us or something?”

Dean shakes his head.

“Nah, I don’t think so. If anything, he’s starting to really climb the walls again.” Dean leans his hip against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms. “He’s got a lot more at stake here than either one of us, after all.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam agrees, “Although if we manage to pull this off, Dean, it’s going to be pretty big. For everyone.”

“It’s only fair we fix what we broke.”

“Except we didn’t know we were breaking it in the first place. That has to count for something. I mean, we thought we were _fixing_ it. ”

Dean has to tread carefully here. There’s a line clear as a bell that can be drawn from this fuck up to Sam’s fuck up from way back when, when he killed Lilith. Dean most definitely doesn’t feel like dredging up the past, not at the moment. There’s still shit he’s buried deep from those days, and he doesn’t want to start sifting through them quite yet.

“Yeah,” Dean finds himself saying neutrally, “well, whatever. We’re gonna fix it.”

Sam nods, although he looks like he’s been checked out for a while, a slight furrow between his brow. He’s fidgeting awkwardly, gaze darting to Dean’s face and then back down to a tea towel on the counter.

“Jesus, Sam, what? You look constipated.”

Sam huffs, but seems to steel himself.

“I know shit’s been… difficult between us at times,” Sam says, a new contestant for biggest understatement in the world. He picks up the tea towel and starts fiddling with it. “But, Dean, you know I’m still your brother, right?”

“Uh… yeah, Sam. I’m aware.”

“And you know you can… _talk_ about stuff, right?” he asks haltingly, like he wants to be having this conversation about as much as Dean (doesn’t) want to.

Dean raises an eyebrow.

“Are we having a sleepover or something and I just missed the memo? Or are you fishing, Sam?” he asks suspiciously, eyes narrowed. “If you want to say something, just say it.”

Sam looks incredibly out of his element here.

“I just don’t… want to corner you,” he admits. “I don’t want you to think you have to say something, but I’m just leaving the door open, okay?”

 “Is this about the laundry I left in the washer last week?” he asks facetiously, trying not to contemplate what Sam’s actually asking about. It’s too fragile right now, too unsure to even consider discussing it.

Sam stares at him blankly for a moment, before laughing unhappily and saying, “Yeah, Dean. It is.” He brushes past Dean to leave the kitchen, and stops in the doorway momentarily, hesitating.

“I’ll deal with it,” Dean promises, both to himself and Sam.

***

"I don't like it," Dean says immediately. "It's a shitty plan."

"It's our only plan," Cas argues.

"It puts everyone at risk."

"What, like you guys are the only ones allowed to sacrifice yourselves?" Charlie scoffs, and Dean can practically hear Chuck whimpering off to the side. "This affects all of us, Dean, not just you."

Dean turns to appeal to Sam. "A little help here?"

Sam shakes his head at Dean. "It's not a battle we're going to win."

"You've got to be kidding me," Dean groans, rubbing his hands at his temples. "You guys could die."

"You've died," Kevin points out, "multiple times."

"That's not-!" Dean takes a deep breath to steady himself, before continuing, much more calmly, "this isn't one of those movies where everyone gets to stand in solidarity while holding hands and being the noble heroes who save the day, okay?" His eyes flash, briefly flicking over to Cas before resuming their scroll, "if any of you gets hurt, or dies, or worse, that's it for you. We don't provide a fucking die-and-resurrect guarantee. You're all human- or, close enough, at least- and it's a one hit kill, okay?"

"We understand we're not playing mortal kombat, here," Charlie assures him, briefly squeezing his arm. "But, Dean, you're kidding yourself if you think we're not going to help you guys do this."

Dean knew it was futile from the start, if he's being honest with himself. It's always been a struggle in futility, trying to convince people life is actually worth living. Linda, Kevin, and Charlie are all staring at him, faces determined and resolute.

Dean shakes his head.

"Metatron is going to blow you all away," he says morosely. "The guy emptied out heaven- to him, you're probably just ants to step on." His nose wrinkles. "Ants with stories."

"You need someone at each doorway," Linda says, "my elementary school math may be rusty, but last I checked that means one person per door."

"We don't even know who's fighting for Metatron!" Dean exclaims. "It could be fucking shadow monsters from the realm of fuckplace for all we know. God knows there aren't going to be any angels teaming up with him."

Cas steps forward.

"You and Sam will just need to be fast, then," he says reasonably. "In and out."

"Right, because heaven is a real straightforward place. We'll just pick up a map at the tourist center."

"Last time you were there," Cas says, still annoyingly calm, "there was an axis mundi. Your road. You'll find it again. You just need to follow it."

"This isn't about us," Dean snaps, "because we'll be free to roam in an empty dimension, leaving you right on the front line! How can you ask me to accept that?"

Cas' face darkens.

"Don't underestimate your task, Dean," he warns. "Metatron will have put security measures in place to act in his absence. It's not going to just be a stroll down memory lane. There will be obstacles to overcome."

Dean takes a step forward too, face burning. Everyone else watches with wide eyes, like they're at a tennis match. Sam looks like he's ready to start coughing awkwardly.

"I think there's an obstacle right here," he says, "because this is me putting my foot down."

Cas shakes his head, almost sadly.

"It doesn't matter, Dean," he says, sounding actually sorry, "the matter is already decided."

In the ensuing silence you could hear a pin drop.

Finally, Dean clears his throat.

"We're going to finish this conversation in private, I think," he says quietly, walking out of the room.

After a moment and without a word, Cas follows him, back stiff.

***

They walk in an uncomfortable, tense silence back to Dean's room, Cas just a few paces behind him.

Dean enters the room before him, and to Cas' surprise, once he's crossed the threshold he finds himself being slammed back against the door, effectively closing it loud enough for everyone in the bunker to hear.

In no time at all, Dean's mouth is on his, hot and insistent- Cas would even say desperate.

"Dean," he says mildly, once Dean's finally let up a moment to breathe. "Dean you can't just-"

"Shut up," Dean says, and then kisses him again.

Cas can't help the sound that rumbles out of his throat, and Dean seems to get even more encouraged, tugging at the shirt Cas is wearing.

"Dean," Cas tries again, but his voice is faltering as his body is just getting into the swing of things. He doesn't mean to start kissing back, but somehow it happens and somehow he manages to ignore the undercurrent of wrongness to this whole situation, the way it feels like Dean is kissing him like he's drowning and Cas can feel the heat of his emotion bubbling up and over the surface of his skin, burning him.

Dean can't seem to stop touching him; running hands up and down his arms, knuckles grazing the skin of his now exposed lower back, a knee thrust between Cas's thighs, rubbing along the inner seam of his jeans teasingly. His body is alight with sensation, his shallow, shuddering breaths constantly swallowed up by Dean's eager lips.

His shirt eventually falls off his shoulders and slithers to the ground in an unceremonious lump, and he finds himself being pulled to the bed, Dean's hands now finding themselves situated at the crux of his hipbones, his mouth sealed to a spot just under the bolt of Cas' jaw.

Something in the back of Cas' head is screaming, _wrong, wrong, wrong_ but he's not thinking clearly right now, his judgement clouded and practically nonexistent. It's too much, too fast, and Dean is clinging to him like he thinks they're never going to see each other again after tonight.

Dean pushes him back onto the bed, and Cas sinks down onto it, the blood rushing downwards as Dean climbs on top of him, straddling him. He buries his face in the crook of Cas' neck, and for a moment he completely freezes, like he's been turned to stone.

Cas doesn't say anything, just hangs there in purgatory until Dean starts kissing him again, picking right up where he left off. He crushes his mouth to Cas', using his tongue to pry open his lips, and Cas lets him. He needs Dean to take what he needs from this, because maybe, Cas wouldn't be able to give- or know to give whatever it is- otherwise.

Dean's mouth is incredibly hot, leaving burning trails up and down Cas' throat, iced by the dry air of the bunker once Dean's moved onto another spot. So gently- always gently, now- Cas cups Dean's face in his palms, trying to reciprocate despite how, even with his limited human knowledge, this isn't right.

Dean's hardly said a thing, his expression a confusing mix of lust, arousal, and desperation. When Cas moves his hands to Dean's face however, he stills. Slowly, he raises his head, and Cas can see that he's crying.

So that's why he stopped kissing him on the mouth.

It only takes a second for Cas to snap back to reality as he realizes that the wetness on his fingers are tears, and he sits up immediately, the action forcing Dean to sit back on his heels.

"Dean."

"God, I'm fine, I just-"

He cuts himself off abruptly, pinching the bridge of his nose, taking a moment to collect himself.

"I don't know why anything's changed," Dean says hollowly, "I mean, how I feel hasn't changed, but it's somehow so much _worse_ , now." He shakes his head, dejected, "And I think that makes me a really, really selfish asshole."

Cas shifts a bit, propping himself up a bit more. He moves his hands to Dean's thighs, presses his palms flat to them.

"The last thing you could be is selfish," Cas assures him fervently.

Dean shakes his head, as if Cas isn’t getting it. "You talk about it so... Matter of factly," he accuses, "throwing yourself in the line of fire like that."

Cas slowly slides his hands off Dean, sitting back on the bed and crossing his legs. "I don't want to say I learned from the best," Cas says pointedly, eyeing Dean wryly, "but... well." He shrugs. "You definitely helped in that regard."  
  
Dean's face crumples, like an artist who just tore a page out of their sketchbook to toss in the trash.  
  
"That doesn't make me feel any better," he informs him. "If anything, you've gotta _learn_ from our mistakes, Cas," he half begs, his eyes pleading. "Because we sure as hell don't. You've seen the shit me and Sam get into, and you've seen how fucked up it really is."  
  
"I'm not under any illusions that this is going to be an easy or risk free endeavor," Cas assures him, eyes uneasy. "You know I worry about you, as well. You and Sam are going to be on your own in an incredibly hostile environment."  
  
Dean shakes his head. "You're going to be facing Metatron," he insists, and then hesitates as he adds, "the guy who stole your grace, man."  
  
If he's being honest, Cas has done his best not to think about that part. He's still so nauseatingly unsure about how he wants to approach the situation that even the idea of getting his grace back makes him feel ill. At least without it, he's spared the decision for the time being.  
  
"Perhaps," Cas says slowly, very much deflecting, "we could just try to support each other's decisions. I've heard that's what people generally do."  
  
"We don't 'generally' do anything," Dean says, half bitterly.  
  
"I know."  
  
"It's just-- really hard," Dean admits. "I guess it should be obvious, but when it's the guy you-" he stops, tripping over his own tongue, "when it's a guy who means this much to you," he course corrects, "I mean, that's why it's so fucking hard to be attached in this life," he gestures vaguely. "The fewer people you care about and the less you care about them, the fewer funerals you have to attend."

“Your friends and family shouldn’t be just liabilities to you,” Cas says quietly, vehemently. “They love you so much.”

Dean’s face skews a bit at the word, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” Dean admits, changing topics, “It’s like we’re walking around in the dark, here.”

“Isn’t that always the case?” Cas asks sympathetically.

“Yeah, except…” the _we have more to lose this time_ isn’t said, but Cas hears it nonetheless.

Cas knows all this isn’t just about the Metatron thing. He’s aware of Dean’s fear of abandonment, and is more than aware that he’s participated in the aggravating of that fear more than once.

Of course, with that said, there’s no way Cas can just _be around_ all the time. He can’t just shirk his duties or the plan because he’s afraid he’s going to die, or because he’s afraid Dean’s going to get hurt. They may both be soldiers, but Dean was always a less willing one than Cas. Cas has a mind cultivated for the battlefield, whereas Dean- despite his many battle hewn abilities- has an inherent need for the exact opposite of war.

It’s an impossible inherency to cater to, despite Cas desperately _wanting_ to do just that.

Cas reaches out to fold a hand around Dean’s forearm, but doesn’t say anything. He just lightly runs his fingers up and down the smooth skin there while Dean watches him, face unreadable.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” Dean says, and Cas can hear the way his words twist around the regret in his tone, and he knows Dean isn’t just talking about their plan.

“No,” Cas agrees, “No, it won’t be.”

His hand tightens almost imperceptibly.

***

Cas doesn't explain too in depth about how he knows how to get in contact with his siblings, and realistically, Sam thinks it's for the best. They can't just sit with their thumbs up their asses anymore, now that they at least have _somewhat_ of a shot at fixing everything.

The last thing Sam wants to think about is what would happen if the tears in dimensions continue to widen, if, god forbid, the doorways completely cease to exist, leaving earth and every other dimension a total free for all. Tearing down a wall worked once thanks to Dean being a total Pink Floyd nerd, but Sam thinks it's a one time deal.

From here on out, it's all about building them back up.

Which is actually a graceful way to transition into him, Dean, Cas, Charlie, Kevin, Linda, and even an incredibly twitchy Chuck staring at the two dozen fallen angels standing in front of them just outside the bunker.

It's not that they _can't_ come inside, but they all distinctly noted feeling incredibly uneasy once they crossed the threshold- now, whether that's from being near notorious angel killers and sometimes enemies the Winchesters, or if the warding actually works on them, just at a slower rate, Sam isn't sure. Cas had solved the problem smoothly enough, suggesting they congregate outside where there's more room for everybody to breathe. Despite the size of the bunker, the rooms still remain small enough that about thirty people trying to squeeze in is comparable to a host of circus clowns climbing out of a mini coup.

Cas plucked them from all over the neighboring states, and they flocked to him like ducklings to their mother. He’s notorious among angels, for sure, but even this- this is quite a feat. He’s like angel nip.

Cas has been dividing everyone up into groups, four angels per group with either Charlie, Kevin, Linda, or Chuck manning the intergroup communication. Since there's six groups of angels and only five of them, Cas has taken on the two groups that will be geographically closest.

To everyone's immense surprise, after a while of talking strategy and the advantages of a car versus a motorcycle, Dean had stopped the conversation in its tracks by tossing Cas the keys to the Impala.

Everyone had stared, open mouthed, at Dean (except the angels, who were more interested in the strategizing part of the plan than a paltry transportation issue), and Dean, obviously embarrassed, shrugged defensively.

"She's seen us through worse," is all he had said, and Cas had gone quiet, staring at the keys in his hand like they held the secrets to the universe.

Sam is just grateful as shit they'd found some time to finally teach Cas how to drive in this mess.

***

Getting everyone into position is an arduous process, because transporting twenty nine people to various points in the Midwest is not only exhausting, but gleefully strains their credit cards thanks to the amount of gas it takes. Cas always rides with every car load, Sam or Dean driving with one of the human leads sitting in the middle of the front, and four angels crammed into the backseat like sardines.

They don’t complain, but Sam figures when you find yourself working with the Winchesters and Castiel, under the watchful eye of a human, there’s bound to be some sour grapes. Cas has assured him and Dean there shouldn’t be any trouble, and for the most part, Sam believes him.

It takes them the better part of four days to get everyone properly situated. They often find themselves running around in circles as different angels report hearing about tears in different places, and dealing with the inevitable squabbling between siblings as they decide whose theory bears more weight. Then, once they actually arrive, there’s a lot of Cas wandering around- sometimes for hours- until he can spray paint a large X on the ground where he’s found the doorway.

It’s a pain in the ass for sure, and Sam can definitely see how it’s wearing on Dean, watching Cas specifically map out the places where he’s most likely going to come face to face with Metatron.

Linda ends up with her crew in Norfolk, Nebraska, in the playground of an abandoned elementary school from the seventies. Kevin and his angels are in a back alley in downtown Greely, Colorado. Chuck (who took a great deal of convincing and bribery) finds himself somewhere in central Colorado, but not in any populated area. More than anything, it’s him and a bunch of angels hanging out in the forest for a couple days while everyone else gets into position. Cas’ groups are based off the roof of an apartment complex in Blackwell, Oklahoma, and a town that doesn’t have a name anymore a couple miles west of Coffeyville, Kansas. 

It’s not until their last stop (a corn field on the outskirts of Quincy, Illinois, with Charlie leading) that an angel finally says something. Sam thinks her name is Puriel, her vessel a stick of a thing, dark eyes sparking. Sam should have pegged her for trouble on the drive here, with the increasingly antagonistic glares she kept sending Cas from the backseat.

It seems to be the final straw for her when Cas reminds the group (as he had reminded every group previous) that this siege is in _no way real_. Actually trying to breach heaven now would be pointless and suicidal (he always glances at Sam out of the corner of his eye as he says it, and Sam assumes he sends Dean the same look whenever it had been Dean’s turn).

“So, what, you want us to risk our lives for a _fake_ siege?” she snarls, tossing her hair angrily. “Why does it matter if we stage it or not. I mean-” she gestures at Sam without looking at him, “- won’t it give those two boneheads more of a chance, anyway, if we’re there to back them up?”

Cas’ face grows dark for a moment, but it passes, and he says, reasonably, “The fewer the better. We need Metatron as far away from heaven as we can get him, and if we were all to breach, he’d never leave.”

Puriel raises her eyebrows.

“The fewer the better?” she repeats dangerously, eyes narrowed. Sam knows the angels aren’t near as powered up as they used to be, but he feels like the air around him starts to crackle with electricity regardless. “Is that what you said after Beaver Bay?”

Cas’ face drains of color, but she continues on, pacing in front of him now. The three other angels look on in interest.

“It’s interesting how you feel the need to ‘cleanse’ the population of angels when you’ve got a chance to impress your double boy wonders, but then don’t hesitate to scoop up another batch as soon as things start to fly south, huh?”

“Puriel, what are you talking about?” an angel whose name Sam doesn’t know asks, his vessel a simply built, red headed man with glasses. “What is this ‘cleansing’ you speak of?”

Puriel turns back to her three siblings.

“A couple months ago, good old Cas here forced almost two hundred of our brothers and sisters out of their vessels in about the most painful way possible. Isn’t that right, Cas?” she asks without looking over her shoulder. “Trying to fix the mistake that _you_ made, am I right?”

Behind his glasses, the man’s eyes go wide. He turns to Cas, expression pleading for him to explain. Charlie, who’s been watching the exchange in silence, takes a tiny, protective step closer to Cas.

Cas looks like a deer in the headlights, and the last time Sam remembers seeing him this out of sorts is when they had trapped him in a ring of holy fire demanding answers about Sam’s soul.

“Brother-” he starts, pleading, but Puriel interrupts.

“It was him,” she says, voice promising all the hellfire in the world. “It’s his fault we fell.”

“It was a _mistake_ ,” Sam snaps, finally stepping in. He knows his word is going to be mean next to nothing to them, but he has to try regardless. What he doesn’t expect, however, is for Cas to hold out a hand to _him_ , effectively silencing him.

“Thank you, Sam,” Cas says seriously, “but it’s not your place.”

“Cas-”

“ _Thank you_ , Sam,” Cas repeats, harsher, and Sam shuts up. Like Charlie, he edges his way towards Cas, just in case.

Cas takes a step towards Puriel and the rest of the group, who are now staring at him, wide eyed and betrayed.

“Puriel is right,” Cas says, “And I am prepared to take full responsibility for my actions. I’ve been a hypocrite and, well, an ass.” He scans their faces, finally landing on Puriel’s acrid gaze. “But I need your help. It’s more than just fixing heaven. It’s fixing everything, because the world broke years ago, and, yes, I was a part of that, too.” his voice takes on a slightly shamefaced tone, but he presses on, “This is our chance, once and for all, to put everything back where it belongs. To restore balance to the universe.”

“And you expect us to clean up your mess,” Puriel accuses.

“I’m asking for your _help_ ,” Cas corrects, “This is a chance to finally do some good after all the bad.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to help,” Puriel informs him, still hostile, “But the fact that you’re asking us to _fake_ this is just insulting.”

 “Be insulted all you want,” Cas says, “it’s for the best. If you’re going to do this, I need your word that you’ll stick to the plan. Need I remind you that if it works, the most important part of the plan will be completely non-fiction.”

Puriel seems to hold out as long as she can before sighing heavily and nodding.

Cas breathes out his own relief and nods slightly.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. “Really, thank you.”

It’s obvious that Puriel is still bristling, but she holds her tongue for the most part.

“Just promise me this,” she says, “That when we finally make it back upstairs, you’re going to stay down here and the hell away from the rest of us.”

***

Cas’ group in Kansas is slated to start the “breach”. They should know where Metatron is at all times, but it’s especially important in the first part of the plan, as Sam and Dean need time to slip through in Oklahoma. Cas had determined that particular doorway the easiest to walk through, and even though Sam has been practising the dimensional slip during Dean’s angel runs, he’s still pretty touch and go.

“I can do it by myself,” Dean had offered, and Sam hadn’t even bothered to dignify it with a response.

They drop Cas off in Coffeyville so that he can run the first part of the plan in person and give them the go ahead when it’s time.

Dean pulls him off to the side, once they’re in town, and he really, honestly tries not to make a big thing of it. Really, how many times over the past couple years have him and Cas parted, never knowing if they’d see each other again?

Dean tries not to think about how and why this time is different.

“Watch yourself, okay?” Dean says, and bites back anything that sounds like any kind of proper parting words. “Don’t let him get in your head.”

“I’ve had enough things in my head to last many lifetimes,” Cas weakly jokes, but it immediately falls flat. His face sobers. “I won’t,” he says.

Dean’s only peripherally aware of Sam leaning against the Impala in the background, but still hesitates as he halfway reaches out to grab Cas’ forearm, but doesn’t quite make it all the way there.

Dean wants to drop all pretense and remind Cas not to die, but he can’t force himself to do it. He shifts his weight awkwardly and the encroaching cool weather swirls between them.

“Any last advice?”

Cas doesn’t even bother to try this time.

“Watch yourself,” he says somberly.

***

“You and Cas-” Sam starts in the car, but Dean just cranks the volume and pretends like he actually loves this song. Heaven is a place on earth, indeed.

***

**Blackwell, Oklahoma**

The angels watch Sam and Dean silently. It’s fairly windy on the rooftop, the wind nipping at their cheeks and noses. Sam huddles inside his jacket.

“How long now?” he mutters to Dean, whose been silently counting down the seconds until Cas’ crew is supposed to start the distraction.

“About five.”

Sam glances over his shoulder at the angels standing on the other side of the roof.

“Don’t you find it weird how docile they are?” Sam asks quietly.

Dean shrugs, uninterested. He’s staring at the clock on his phone.

“Cas is like their new dad,” he says neutrally. “They’re either too afraid of him or too in love with him to really try anything anymore.”

“That’s not too reassuring.”

Dean glances up briefly, face carefully blank.

“Yeah, well, I’m not looking a gift horse in the teeth. Not at this point.”

He stares at Dean speculatively. Sam’s always wondered what it’s like; loving Cas.

Not that he _doesn’t_ , of course. Sam just loves Cas in a different way than his brother does. But he can only imagine what it is to love something so impermanent. Sam knows there’s a part of Dean, deep down, that’s a forever kind of guy. He knows Dean remembers every one night stand, every flirtation and every attempt at something halfway to normal; Cassie, Lisa. He carries them all with him, always, and Sam doesn’t know how long he’s taken up residency, but Cas most definitely holds a place in that spot as well.

He knows his brother better than anyone else, but it’s hardly an impressive claim when Dean doesn’t even know himself. Sam has no idea if it’s going to work with Dean and Cas. He can hope, if only so that they can carve out some kind of happiness for themselves at some point further down the line. God knows it’s been in short supply lately.

Dean is tapping away furiously on his phone.

“I’m telling everyone else to get ready,” he explains, a flash of doubt crossing his features.

“Was this a terrible idea?” he asks, and then answers himself, “It was a terrible idea.”

“It was our only idea,” Sam says, “You were originally against it.”

“Why didn’t I stick to my guns.” Dean stares at his phone. “You ready?” he asks Sam. “You think you can pull it off?”

Sam runs his hands through his hair.

“Maybe I suck so badly at this because of what happened with the Trials,” he says, then, haltingly, “Because I wanted to die. Maybe I’m not here enough to actually, properly get through.”

Phone forgotten, Dean lets his hand drop loosely to his side.

“What?” he asks lowly, “You still…” Sam can hear him fighting to keep the betrayal out of his voice. “You’re still thinking like that?”

Sam shakes his head, but it’s hesitant.

“Not really,” he admits. “But sometimes it just crosses my mind, y’know? An idle thought.”

Dean closes his eyes momentarily and goes very still.

“Sam,” he says, voice wavering faintly, “You can’t just… _check out_ like that. You _can’t_. Not after talking about lights at the end of tunnels and _I will carry you_ and all that bullshit.”

“I can’t help it,” he says, trying not to sound petulant. He knows Dean’s been there before, is probably still there. Sometimes it’s just about dragging each other to the finish line even if they have to claw their way to it. He slaps an underwhelming hand to Dean’s shoulder. “It’ll pass.”

Dean looks like he’s about to say something, when his phone starts bleeping in his hand.

“Shit,” he says, “It’s time.”

***

“Hold your ground,” Cas instructs calmly, all his experience on the battlefield coming back with a vengeance. His mind is clear. He knows the objective. He knows the target. He seals thoughts of Sam and Dean deep down, and keeps his breathing even.

The angels surround the door in a semi- circle, Cas standing right behind the arc of the circle. Puriel is to his right, focusing just as hard as her siblings, and Cas can’t summon up even an infinitesimal bit of bitterness towards her. She’s right.

In front of them, the air starts to shimmer slightly, like heat waves rising off concrete. When he explained it to Sam and Dean he described it as knocking on one of heaven’s multiple doors- insistently. Dean had made a joke about Bob Dylan that Cas didn’t get and Sam ignored.

There’s nothing to stop Metatron from slaying all of them where they stand, considering its four angels and Cas against the scribe of god. But from Cas’ experience, Metatron doesn’t to get his hands dirty if he has to. (The extraction of Cas’ grace being the exception, but Cas can clearly see that as the means to an end it was meant to be. By barely raising a hand, Metatron was able to empty the sky.) If anything, Metatron has always been interested in stories more than anything. If everyone’s dead, there are no more stories to tell.

As if on cue, Metatron appears before them, looking- if not pleasantly- at least faintly surprised. Pressing a button on a pre-set text on his phone in his pocket, Cas steps forward into the half circle. His siblings watch intently.

“Castiel,” Metatron greets, with a cursory glance at the other angels. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

***

Thirty seconds after Dean stops his phone’s alarm, Cas sends them the go ahead text.

Dean sends out his own text to the other crews, and looks back at the rest of the angels.

“Good luck,” he says.

They stare at him with middling distaste.

Dean looks at Sam, eyebrows raised.

“You ready, little brother?”

“Let’s go.”

***

Linda, Kevin, Chuck, and Charlie all receive the text within moments of each other.

Linda, fiercely; Kevin, confident; Chuck, tentative; Charlie, with the grace of a queen.

“Get ready,” they tell their crew, and look at their watches.

***

Dean’s not sure if he’s surprised or not to find himself on a road again. After all, axis mundi, follow the road, etc. Except this time, they’re not going to the garden.

This time, they’re looking for where Metatron’s set up camp.

Sam’s beside him, and after sharing a brief glance, they start walking.

“The traps,” Dean reminds him. “We probably just tripped a million security systems.”

As if on cue, the road drops out from under them, and Sam and Dean are falling.

***

“You know what,” Cas says, trying his best to keep his voice from shaking. He may have locked his worry for the Winchesters away for the time being, but his anger at Metatron is a rage in his gut that refuses to lessen.

Metatron shrugs daintily, picking an imaginary piece of lint off his sweater sleeve.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says loftily.

Cas inclines his head.

“So you don’t want to talk about how easy it was to summon you here?” he asks mildly. His hand twitches minutely. “We all know what’s going on.”

Metatron tsks loudly. “That has nothing to do with me,” he informs Cas, “In fact, I was under the impression this was all thanks to you and the Winchesters.”

“Regardless,” Cas says, “It affects all of us. Especially those of us who have emptied out an entire dimension and claimed it for ourselves.” He raises an eyebrow, “When it all comes crumbling down, how do you expect to protect your domain from all the creatures that’ll come flooding in from a thousand different dimensions?” he asks curiously. “You’re powerful, but not to that degree.”

“I’m not unaware of the problem,” Metatron assures him, “Although I thank you for your concern, Castiel. I’ve taken precautions.”

Cas sighs, like he’s admitting to a great defeat.

“We need your help,” he says.

***

They fall for what seems like hours, but somehow, it doesn’t feel like there’s any downward movement. It’s like they’re suspended in mid-air, and yet Sam _knows_ they’re falling. There’s nothing around them, just darkness.

“Well,” Dean says from somewhere to his right. “This sucks.”

Sam can move, but it’s akin to running in place. He stretches out a hand and swipes it through the blackness, but there’s nothing. No rippling, no air obstructing his movement, nothing.

“There has to be a way out,” Sam says.

“Why?” Dean asks, “The whole point of this shit is to trap someone, not temporarily inconvenience them.”

“There’s no way Metatron can foolproof booby trap an entire dimension,” Sam argues, “There’s got to be a loophole.”

“I think we’ve used up our quota of exploiting divine loopholes,” Dean says sardonically. 

Sam frowns.

“Didn’t you _just_ tell me to look for the light at the end of the tunnel, like, a couple minutes ago? We’ll find a way out.”

“Don’t use me quoting you as an excuse,” Dean warns.

Sam looks around him, even though it’s useless.

“We’re in heaven,” he says, “I mean, it’s malleable. We should be able to manipulate it if we focus hard enough.”

“It’s not our own heaven,” Dean contends, “It’s just- I dunno, it just feels like one big arena now.”

“Okay,” Sam reasons, “Different wallpaper, same house. Metatron’s probably been poking and prodding at it...” he trails off as something about this place and what Dean just said ticks his déjà vu meter.

“Hey,” he says, “Remember those people trapped in the cages I saw while we were escaping Zachariah?”

“ _Allegedly_ saw,” Dean corrects. “You were the only one who saw anything.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Well, I’ve been thinking about it, and I think they were all supernatural creatures. Like, some of them were flitting in and out, some of them looked like djinn.”

There’s an extended period of silence where Sam waits for Dean to respond and Dean obviously assumes his silence is prompt enough.

“… so?” he asks finally, testy. “What’s that got to do with us hanging out in limbo?”

“Well, if the angels, or _some_ angels, at least, are doing something with other supernatural creatures, maybe all of these traps are, y’know, _meant_ for supernatural creatures.”

“And?”

Sam blanches.

“We can use it to our advantage… somehow.”

“Somehow,” Dean repeats skeptically.

“Do you have a better idea?” Sam snaps.

The sheepish silence radiating off Dean is enough of an answer.

It doesn’t matter if Sam closes his eyes or keeps them open. He holds a hand in front of his face and can’t see anything.

Dean makes an annoyed noise.

“At least we’re not in fucking cages,” he grouches.

Sam feels the kernel of an idea start to pop in the back of his mind.

“Yeah,” he says thoughtfully, “I wonder why that is.” He holds out his hand again, turning around in a circle, searching for anything that could potentially feel like the edge of a cage. “Maybe…” he theorizes, “Maybe the cages are only triggered by, I dunno, magic or some property that non-humans have that we don’t share.”

“So you’re saying only half the trap triggered?” Dean asks.

“I think so,” Sam says. “I mean…” he focuses for a moment, and concludes that, yes, they are still moving. “You can feel that, right? That it feels like we’re not moving, but we are?”

“Yeah, it’s fucking weird,” Dean grumbles. “I don’t like it.”

“Maybe if we move in the right direction…” Sam mumbles, more to himself than Dean, testing out a theory. Even though it doesn’t matter, he closes his eyes and tries to _move_ , in a direction that’s not up or down. He managed to get through heaven’s door, maybe this trap is a similar principle.

“Try feeling around for a peel in the wallpaper,” Sam says, “Similar to a dimensional door, but probably more local.”

“What the fuck does that even mean,” Dean grouches, but Sam can hear the concentration leak into his voice as he obviously listens to Sam’s instructions.

Sam fades out, trying to search for any kind of opening, even if it’s the width of a fingernail. He’s thinking the blackness that surrounds them was only step one of the trap, and step two was supposed to be the deployment of the cages.

He’s just got to hope there’s no step three.

Sam concentrates everything he’s got on the space around him, trying to feel his way through the black.

The thing is, Sam’s not naturally smart in hunting terms. It’s a trait he cultivated at a young age to keep up with Dean and his dad, to keep both them and himself from getting killed. Sure, he’s _academically_ smart, but that hardly holds credence in this line of work. Similar to Dean, (although there’s always been an instinctual flair to Dean’s way of thinking that Sam doesn’t possess) Sam’s had to become adaptable. He’s been able to take his academic smarts and the work ethic he developed through college and apply it to what he does now, in a way that’s sometimes satisfying and, thankfully, almost always lifesaving.

And as he finally locates that tiny, infinitesimal tear in the space around him, he feels that kernel of pride flare briefly. Although the job has been feeling like a heavier and heavier weight on his shoulders (especially since Amelia) it’s nice to just get one right every once in a while.

“Here,” he tells Dean, “From the sounds of it, you’re about five feet away from it.”

There’s silence for a moment, then, “Okay. Got it.”

Sam nods, even though Dean can’t see it.

They slip through the tear.

***

Metatron laughs, but immediately stops when Cas’ expression doesn’t change.  He looks around at the rest of the angels, who stare at him quietly, balefully. He looks like he’s expecting that man from that show to jump out of the bushes and talk about how he’s just been prank’d.

“You’re… really asking me for help?” Metatron asks. “Me.”

Cas nods.

“Yes.”

Metatron’s brow furrows.

“Not that I want to bring up any bad blood, Castiel, but are you sure you’re asking the right person? I did use your grace as the final ingredient in the spell to make the angels fall.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Cas sees Puriel wince slightly, and his heart goes out to her, but his face remains stony. He needs to pull this off. He needs Metatron to believe him.

“We’ve weighed the pros against the cons,” Cas says stiffly. “This is a time for allies, not grudges.”

Metatron looks at Cas speculatively, and then his brow smooths out as he chuckles, waggling a finger at him.

“You almost had me,” Metatron says, like he’s about to ruffle Cas’ hair and call him a scamp. “But I know you, Castiel. I know your story.”

“Then you’ll know I’ve had many a strange bedfellow,” Cas says mildly, trying not to hate himself too much as he does so. “The ends justify the means, do they not?”

Seemingly out of nowhere, Metatron plucks a book out of thin air and flips to the last page dramatically.

“ _I’m your new God_ ,” he reads with the appropriate gravitas, “ _A better one. So you will bow down and profess your love unto me, your lord. Or I shall destroy you._ ” He looks back up at Cas, nodding. “I suppose they do. But take note, I’ve still got a couple more years to cover.”

In front of him, Puriel shakes minutely, and Cas silently begs her to hold it together.

At the same time, Cas is wading through a realization of his own.

“It’s you,” he says faintly. Finally. “You were the one who started publishing the books again.”

Metatron shrugs in a _whatcanyado_ gesture. “You know me. I love stories, and the Winchesters’ is a doozy.”

“You can’t,” he says forcefully, even though his ears are ringing. “ _You can’t_.”

Metatron smiles.

“I did,” he unfolds his arms, “Now what was that about you needing my help?”

***

Charlie’s starting to fret. She texts Linda, _anything yet?????_ with a whole host of question marks.

Immediately, she receives a response.

_Not yet_.

It’s been years since Charlie dropped the nervous habit of biting her nails, but she thinks they’ll be bitten down to the nub by the end of it all.

***

They find themselves back on the road, and if Dean were prone to kissing things, he’d probably be kissing the asphalt right now.

“That was smart,” he says, clapping Sam on the shoulder. “Nice job.”

“Uh huh. Hey.” Sam grabs the back of Dean’s jacket as he starts to walk again. “We’ve gotta be smarter about it this time. I don’t know how many times we can MacGyver our way out of Metatron’s traps.”

“How do you suggest we do that?”

Sam glances around himself, hands on his hips. After a moment, he crouches by the side of the road to pick up a handful of pebbles. He turns around and tosses one at the trap they just got out of, and instead of just falling to the ground, it disappears out of the air completely. Sam turns to Dean and shrugs.

“I guess that’ll work.”

Dean nods.

“You realize you just sent that rock to its doom, right?”

“Shut up.”

***

Cas is losing credibility fast, here. He knows Metatron knows there’s only so far they would sink, asking for his help, and they’re practically at the bottom of the ocean already.

“There are others,” Cas tries, “Waiting at other doors. You should go speak to them.”

“And why would I do that?” Metatron asks.

“They are your brothers and sisters,” Cas reminds him. “If you’re only going to antagonize yourself further instead of actually helping, the least you can do is let them know.”

“Why do you have others waiting for me?” Metatron asks suspiciously. “Cas,” he coos, cottoning on, “is this a trap?”

“If this were a trap you’d already be dead,” Cas says shortly.

“Not if you know I can kill you before you can kill me,” Metatron observes, tone cooling.

“There’s only one me,” Cas assures him. “And you won’t kill anyone else.” A quiet hum is rising around them, like a swarm of cicadas making themselves known on a warm summer’s night.

"I killed Naomi."  
  
Cas shrugs, and the drone continues. "You already knew her story."  
  
With that, the air around Metatron starts to properly resonate, creating a ripple effect around him, and his eyes widen. "What are you doing, Castiel?" He asks, panicked for the first time, "Are you insane?!"  
  
"We're just knocking on the door," Cas says, blasé, "We're here to tell you about out lord and savior. Or," he looks at each angel in turn, "thousands of years of stories all at once. We're giving the people what they want." He grabs Puriel by the shoulder and shoves his phone into her hand. “Send the text,” he hisses, and she immediately fires it off as Cas straightens up again to look Metatron dead in the eye.

“Okay,” he admits, “You caught me. It was a trap.”

***

Time works differently in heaven, just like it does in hell. While only a few minutes have passed on earth, it feels like Sam and Dean have been walking along this road for hours, throwing pebbles.

It’s monotonous, until the world rumbles around them.

“Shit,” Dean says, “I guess our distraction is running out.”

Sam’s eyes widen.

“ _If_ they manage to kill Metatron- and that’s a big if- then we don’t have a hell of a lot of time left to find what we need,” Sam says, “With Metatron gone, heaven’s going to reset itself and we’re going to get blasted into pieces in the process. Not to mention,” he adds, like being blasted into pieces isn’t he most worrisome thing about this plan, “We’ll never be able to find the spell.”

“The spell that we don’t even know for sure Metatron has,” Dean confirms, and Sam glares at him.

“It’s here,” he says darkly, and Dean tries not to laugh as his giant of a brother runs off down the road, throwing pebbles with fervent zeal.

It makes Dean feel good to know Sam’s actually going to fight it, anyway. It keeps his mind off the fact that they might not get back to earth.

He follows Sam and tries to put it out of his mind.

***

The first time Metatron shows up in front of them, Charlie almost has a heart attack.

The more critical part of her brain immediately rejects the sweater he’s wearing, but every other part is freaking the hell out.

Luckily, their job doesn’t actually involve talking to him. Charlie’s still not exactly sure what their job _is_ ; all she knows is that if something goes wrong (“you _will_ be able to tell if something goes wrong,” Cas had assured her) then she has to speed dial Cas asap, which doesn’t really do much considering they’re a couple states away from each other, but hey, she’s the one who volunteered here.

The closest she can guess is that they’re some kind of barricade that Metatron can’t get past, that he can only operate in the circles they’ve opened (minus the one in Oklahoma that’s been left open for Dean and Sam to exit through). She’d make a joke like, _stuck between a door and a hard place_?? if imminent death for an alarming number of people she cares about wasn’t currently on the table.

All Charlie’s angels (which, ha, she refuses to ignore) do is seem to stare at Metatron really hard, but from the way he’s clutching his head and flickering from view, Charlie has to assume they’re doing something right.

As soon as he disappears from in front of her, Charlie’s immediately texting everyone else: _He’s on the move_.

***

He’s in Kansas, then Colorado, then Nebraska, then Colorado again.

It’s only after it’s too late that he realizes he hasn’t seen a Winchester once.

***

If the guy weren’t such a colossal douchnugget, Dean would thank Metatron for having such opulent tastes.

“So,” Dean observes above the now constant rumbling and growling beneath their feet, showcasing the current instability of both the dimension and Metatron’s reign, “I’m going to go ahead and assume that anything important would be in there.”

Sam shakes his head.

“Probably making up for that stuffy lodge he lived in for so long.”

There’s a trap right in front of the main entrance, and Sam and Dean manage to find a ground floor window that’s clear, but not without significant time lost.

“I guess painful pull-a-part-y death is better than being stuck in Metadouche’s version of heaven for eternity,” Dean observes as they make their way quickly through the resplendent, airy rooms of the mansion.

“We’re probably looking for an office,” Sam says, “I say follow the books,” he suggests, staring at the walls of a hallway to their right that are lined with bookshelves all the way to the end.

“I bet he uses a typewriter,” Dean grumbles, “He seems like the kind of guy who would use a typewriter and all you hear all day long is the fucking dinging.”

Before Sam can make a smartass comment in reply, the rumbling reaches a crescendo and the entire world tilts, sending Sam and Dean right into a bookshelf, with all the books from the shelf on the opposite wall raining down upon them. Dean takes a pretty good hit to the shoulder, while he watches a worryingly large tome knock the air out of his brother’s lungs. All he can do is cover his face, waiting for the barrage to be over.

The world doesn’t tilt back to its normal position, but the bookshelf, thankfully, does run out of books.

Sam and Dean share a quick look to determine the other is still okay to go, and they painstakingly pull themselves up.

“We’re really running out of time,” Sam says, as they run down the juncture where the wall meets the floor, throwing open every door they can.

“Knowing our luck,” Dean comments, right arm hanging loosely at his side, “It’ll be the very last-”

He’s interrupted as they both stand in the doorway (yes, of the last room in the hall) and stare at the piles and heaps upon heaps of files and papers littered about. Nestled in the corner of the room is an upturned desk, and on its side beside it is the typewriter that Dean guessed at.

“Ding ding ding,” he says grimly, as they edge slowly into the room.

A piece of furniture or something has fallen through the large bay window in the room, meaning that if either one of them trip up, they’re heading straight through that hole, sent to god knows which part of heaven. Another threatening rumble that sounds like thunder shakes the floor under them.

“Okay,” Sam says, eyeing the desk shrewdly, “I’ll take the desk and that side of the room. You-”

Dean doesn’t hear the rest of what Sam says, because something from the other side of the hallway has caught his eye. He thinks he feel his stomach fall to his feet as he stares at something hanging from the door handle, the doors themselves obviously wrenched open by the tremors.

“Dean,” Sam is saying, “Dean, are you-” he follows Dean’s eye and stops short. They both just stare for a minute.

“Oh my god,” Sam says. “Is that-”

 “Yeah, it is,” Dean says grimly.

Dean knows he has to climb up there and get it. There’s no question.

“Go,” he tells Sam, already backing out of the room, using the door frame to help haul himself back into the hallway. “I need to grab it.”

“Dean, we need to find the _spell_ ,” Sam pleads as the entire house groans on its foundation, “Believe me, I know it’s important. But man, Cas would rather have you back than his grace.”

Dean shakes his head.

“I’m not leaving it,” he says, and can barely hear himself, as somewhere down the hall, wood splinters. He can feel the angle growing more severe with each passing second, like the house is sinking only on one side.

“Dean-” But Sam never gets to finish his sentence because a sound like a bomb going off rips through the house, the house lurching to one side, knocking Dean into the wall and Sam further into the room.

“Sam!” Dean shouts, peeking around the door, visions of seeing his brother falling through a hole in heaven playing in his mind.

“Dean!” But, no, Sam has managed to gain purchase on a pair of filing cabinets that seem reluctant to move, obviously heavy with documents and drafts. Dean can barely hear him now, the house and entire dimension crumbling around them. Dean has a moment of surprise and pride- and awe, honestly- that Cas and his pals are actually in the process of killing Metatron with their _minds_ , but is quickly brought back to earth as he watches Cas’ grace slip down a mite on the door handle. Soon, the little glass jar full of grace is going to slip right off and, naturally, is poised right above the broken window. If Dean doesn’t get up their soon, Cas’ grace is going to be lost forever.

That thought makes up Dean’s mind quick enough, and he hopes to god Sam is able to make his way over to the desk and start rifling through what he can. There’s a pair of closed doors at the end of the hallway that Sam and Dean would have opened had they not found the office off to the side first, and Dean uses the notches in those doors to pull himself upwards, silently lamenting the lack of pull ups he does. There’s a wind picking up, and whether it’s coming from the open window or from another source, Dean has no idea.

He can see a flipped table just on the inside of the room, and he assumes that’s where Metatron kept Cas’ grace- on display, like a fucking big game trophy or something. Dean grits his teeth as another rumble shakes the house, and he watches in horror as the little jar swings back and forth precariously on the its silver chain.

“Fuck,” he spits, flattening himself to the door as much as possible as the wind picks up. He hears a loud crash from the room Sam is in, and yells his brother’s name, but the wind takes the words right from his lips. He steels himself, and manages to pull himself up another couple inches, his fingers now scrabbling for the door handle adjacent to the one with Cas’ grace hanging off it.

He’s hanging in midair now, held up only by his grip on a single door handle, and begs whichever forces of the world preside over door handles to _not let this one break off_.  With the angle he’s at, it’s incredibly awkward to try and swing the couple inches he needs to reach out and grab the jar, and the grip he has on the handle keeps threatening to break, his hand sweaty and arm already shaking. It’s definitely been a long time since he’s climbed a rope in gym class.

When the house starts to shake again, Dean immediately uses his free hand to grab the handle as well, temporarily abandoning the swinging jar full of grace. He holds on for dear life, and can only hope that Sam is faring better than him in the office across the hall. The shake has extended down to his already bruised shoulder from the falling books earlier, and he closes his eyes for a moment, trying to channel the pain properly. It feels like his shoulder is about to rip off at the seam.

He goes back to the one handed grip once the house seems to have momentarily stabilized, reaching… reaching…

And the most violent tremor yet shakes the house and turns the skies black, and Dean’s shoulder gives out and he’s falling.

For only a second.

He crashes into the wall beside the opening to the office, and his brain scatters for a moment, seeing stars.

Then it’s only one star, falling towards him, a blinding white-blue. He reaches a hand out across the entranceway, his palm open and waiting-

\- and he catches the falling star.

It’s at this moment that the house finally gives in, fully collapsing into the anti-matter of heaven, and Dean feels himself rolling along the wall and plunging into the open air of the office, crashing through the already broken window.

But he holds onto that fallen star tighter than he’s ever held onto anything in his entire life.

***

Cas thinks it’s probably poetic, somehow, that Metatron takes his last breath in front of his crew in Coffeyville. Choking to death on the stories he claimed to love, Cas is pretty sure the phrase is, _hoisted by your own petard_.

The angels who made this happen are fallen, but not powerless. It was simply a matter of luring Metatron outside and then locking the door behind him. Cas wonders if this is irony.

There’s nothing incredibly spectacular about Metatron’s death, minus the actual dying. He doesn’t expire like a normal angel, as this isn’t a normal angel’s death. It’s a death by indulgence, an overdose. All the angels Cas recruited- despite some of their reservations- were able to pour their hatred and fear and loneliness into one, concentrated blast of angel radio. Short circuiting him.

Cas and Puriel and the others stare at his body, and no one says a thing.

Cas takes his phone back from Puriel and stares at the empty lock screen- no word from Oklahoma about Dean and Sam making it back. As soon as Metatron died- which, by Cas’ watch, was thirty-seven seconds ago- the entirety of heaven would have done its best to reset itself, effectively destroying Sam and Dean in the process.

Still half locked into general mode, Cas doesn’t know how to process this. He stares at his phone, willing it to do _something_ , anything.

The seconds tick by, and Cas knows some humans can be revived after minutes without any heartbeat. He doesn’t pray, doesn’t think he knows how to anymore.

But he hopes. And he holds onto that phone so tightly that he almost jumps out of his skin when it actually starts to vibrate in his hand. He presses talk and practically jams it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Get your ass to Oklahoma right now,” Dean orders him, smile in his voice, and Cas feels his knees go weak.

“Dean,” he breathes, and there’s a throaty chuckle on the other end of the line, “You made it back. And Sam…?”

“Would I sound so happy if my brother had been swallowed by a vortex from another dimension? Sam’s fine,” Dean assures him quickly, “The big galute is here and got the fucking spell that’s hopefully going to end this mess.” There’s a muted cry of, _with no thanks to you_! In the background, and then an, _oh, so mature, Dean_ , which Cas takes to assume Dean has just given his little brother the middle finger.

“I don’t understand,” Cas says, “If you weren’t helping Sam, then what were you doing?”

The hesitation on the other end of the line is troubling.

“… Something else came up,” Dean hedges, and the relief that’s been flooding through Cas for the last thirty seconds is immediately squandered.

“What happened?” Cas asks, afraid of the answer.

“Just- just come to Oklahoma,” Dean says, quiet stoicism taking the place of the enthusiasm from moments ago. “Bye, Cas.”

He hangs up.

***

On the drive to Blackwell, Cas has Puriel text everyone else to make sure they’re unharmed, and when all the texts come in affirmative, Cas allowed himself to relax, but only a little bit. Charlie informs him that instead of being stuck in Colorado for the next couple of days, she’s going to just rent a car and drop the angels off at their respective homes, after picking up Kevin as well.

_It’s like I’m a soccer mom!_ she had excitedly texted him, along with a picture of her rented van, Kevin in the front seat grinning, but exhausted. Cas tells Puriel to send her back a smiley face, but when he checks his phone later, he realizes that she’s actually sent the words, _smiley face_.

When they arrive in Blackwell, Cas leaves Puriel and the rest of the angels a couple rooms in a local motel, and goes to meet Sam and Dean at a local bar.

He arrives about ten minutes late, and immediately spies Sam’s hair at a booth in the very back. He makes his way towards them, feeling the grin spreading over his face involuntarily despite the cryptic end of Dean’s phone call. The most important thing right now is that Dean and Sam made it out safe and sound.

When Dean sees him, his own face lights up and he immediately stands up, taking the few strides to meet Cas, pulling him into a bone crushing hug.

“Hey, Cas,” he mumbles into Cas’ shoulder, his palm curling at the nape of his neck.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas returns the hug, aware of Sam’s eyes on them. He presses his lips very, very briefly to Dean’s neck, and steps back.

Dean quickly ushers him into the booth, sliding in beside him, where Sam’s grinning at him.

“Welcome back, Cas,” he greets, “Way to stick it to Metatron.”

“I’m not the one who went anywhere,” Cas says, Dean’s left knee knocking into his right gently under the table, “I should be the one welcoming _you_ home.”

Sam shrugs, fiddling with drinks menu, his easy demeanor giving way to a certain fidgetiness as he meets Dean’s eye with a significant glance.

“I’m, uh,” he starts, standing up, “Gonna go give everyone a call and make sure they’re all okay.” He leaves the booth, heading towards the front door. Dean slides out of the booth and into Sam’s spot so that they’re sitting opposite each other. He fiddles with a salt packet.

“What’s going on, Dean?” Cas asks, “Did something go wrong while you were in heaven?”

Dean laughs nervously.

“Uh, no, actually,” he admits, accidentally ripping open the salt and spraying it across the table. He uses his forearm to rake it all back into a small pile, fingertips rubbing together and constantly licking his lips. Cas reaches a hand across the table to rest a palm on Dean’s arm.

“Dean.”

Dean swallows, and digs inside his jacket pocket.

“We, uh, actually found more than the spell up there,” he says tentatively, watching Cas’ face as if to catch every emotion, however fleeting. He brings his hand out of his pocket, and all Cas can see at first is a silver chain trailing across the table as Dean sets it down. He gently takes his arm back from Cas to place the drinks menu in front of the object still wrapped in his palm, as if to keep out any onlookers.

“We found this, too,” Dean says, voice wavering, as he finally puts it down on the table. The contents inside the jar swirl excitedly to be so near their owner after so long, and Cas grows cold from the inside out.

He looks from his grace to Dean’s face, now bathed in the blue white light emanating from the jar.

“It’s your choice,” Dean says softly.

And Cas wants.


	15. Who Do You Love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title taken from the george thorogood song of the same name bc i'm a passive aggressive little shit
> 
> THIS IS IT!! the last chapter!! if you guys managed to stick with the story this far, you are pretty tolerant of long winded exposition and plots that make little to no sense. in other words, i really appreciate it and i hope this is time you don't think you've wasted <3
> 
> feel free to come talk to me [on tumblr](http://atomicwranglers.tumblr.com/) if you have any comments/concerns/tomatoes to throw

It’s very cold at this time of morning, evidenced by the way Cas has wrapped himself in a bundle of blankets like a man-eating burrito. He’s sitting with his back to an old tree stump, back at his station by the lake, expressionless.

It’s cold enough that Dean’s arrival is announced via leaves crunching under boots, and he settles next to Cas cross legged, the frosty dew no doubt soaking through his thin pajama pants. Neither of them say anything for a while, twin clouds of breath and slow blinks the only way to tell that they haven’t frozen in place yet. Cas can see Dean surreptitiously rubbing his arms for warmth out of the corner of his eye. Dean’s eyes are gummy and puffy and his hair is sleep rumpled. Wordlessly, Cas opens his cocoon of blankets, offering Dean solace from the cold.

Dean stares at him, face wan in the waning moonlight, like he’s not sure what to do, and Cas just waits with open arms- literally.

“C’mon,” Cas says, shaking his arm a little bit.

After just another moment of hesitation, Dean scoots over, nestling next to Cas, his movements awkward and stilted. Cas pretends like he doesn’t notice, giving Dean all the room he needs to carve out his own space. Cas hands the blankets over to Dean, who tucks them in on his other side, leaving him pressed into Cas. He shuffles, seemingly uncomfortable, but when Cas starts to pull away, Dean stills him with a hand on his thigh.

“Sorry,” he says, “It’s been a while since I’ve done this, uh, properly.”

Cas shrugs under the blankets.

“If it makes you feel better, I’ve never done it at all,” Cas says. “I also don’t have much of a reference to work from.”

“Luckily, the whole sharing body heat thing is kinda natural,” Dean says lightly, nudging Cas’ shoulder. “It’s just everything else we gotta figure out.”

“Business as usual, then,” Cas observes wryly, catching the ghost of a grin as it leaves Dean’s lips.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, watching Cas carefully in the gray light of morning. Cas leans his head back against the tree trunk and closes his eyes.

Silence falls between them, but not as easy as Cas has come to get used to. He can feel the hard edges of his grace in his jacket pocket, and he reaches in there now to curl his palm around it, allowing the silver chain to slip across his knuckles.

Metatron may be dead, but his grace remains intact, and isn’t it strange how much more his stomach churns as he thinks about the decision ahead of him. With Metatron’s influence gone, heaven has opened freely again. The dimensions are still fraying at the edges, but the angels will be able to get back home. Hopefully, the spell Sam managed to grab will aid them in properly closing heaven’s doors for good, just with everyone on the right side this time.

And of course, that’s the crux of the situation. Because as much as he doesn’t enjoy it, Cas finds himself in a position where he has to choose sides again. Puriel had definitely made it clear Cas wasn’t invited back to heaven, but he knows that he could rally up enough support if it really came down to it. After all, heaven is a big place. He’d lay low this time. Stay out of everyone’s way and most _definitely_ stay out of the spotlight.

He could be an angel again. He’d be a fool not to consider it. Not only for practical uses like protection and healing and fighting, but because he isn’t sure if somewhere deep down, there’s a hole in him where his grace should be. If he’ll go through life feeling incomplete because he decided being degraced was what he wanted.

All he knows for sure is that he can’t hang on to it for too long. Hanging in the balance like that would kill him.

Besides, they’re shutting up heaven in a couple of days. If he wants to return permanently, he’s going to have to swallow this grace down at some point.

But if he stays, if they manage to shut the gates properly behind the last pair of wings, then his grace will be snuffed out, similar to fingers closing on a candle flame. It’ll be completely defunct. He’ll be whatever he is now forever- or, he supposes, until he dies. Of old age, or on a hunt, or getting hit by a bus.  

Beside him, Dean shifts slightly under the blankets, pressing his shoulder more firmly to Cas’.

“I was worried when I couldn’t find you,” he admits. “Thought you’d taken off.”

Cas wants to say, _you can’t seriously believe I’d leave after all this_ , but then his grip tightens on the jar of grace automatically, and he feels the words die in his throat.

“I didn’t,” is all he ends up saying, “Unless going outside is considered taking off.”

“I guess communing with nature is alright, even if you do it at the buttcrack of dawn,” Dean allows, only slightly begrudgingly.

 “How did you find me, anyway?” Cas asks, changing the subject.

Dean leans back against the tree as well, turning his head towards Cas.

 “You once told me you like it out here,” he shrugs. “Sometimes I find myself making rounds in the night anyways, just to check up on everyone.”

“Even though you know you don’t have to, right?” Cas asks. “The bunker is safely warded.”

“I know,” Dean says, “But also, you never know.”

They’re only a couple inches away from each other. Cas can feel himself soften at Dean’s response, because it’s such a _Dean_ thing to say. He reaches up to fit a hand to Dean’s cheek, brushing the stubble from a few days without a shave with his thumb. It makes his heart leap when Dean doesn’t flinch in the slightest, but instead, moves towards the touch, like a moth to a flame.

It’s not that Cas expects, or even wants Dean to forget the less than savory things that he’s done to him. All he’s ever wanted for Dean is for him to feel safe, to feel loved. Cas has never been entirely sure he could provide either of those services, but if Dean’s feeling safe enough here, now, to allow him to press his lips to Dean’s, he thinks there may be hope after all.

Dean responds gently but enthusiastically, one hand falling to Cas’ neck, right on top of his pulse point, and one curling around his waist, lithely lifting his jacket and t shirt to start grazing his knuckles across the small of Cas’ back. He comes far enough around to occasionally press his thumb to the divot of Cas’ hip bone, causing Cas to arc into the touch, his skin hot-cold thanks to the temperature under the blankets and the crispness of the still muted morning light. The two marry well enough that it doesn’t take long for both Cas’ and Dean’s cheeks to flush bright pink, the skin of Dean’s neck burning beneath his mouth.

He wants to believe this is something he could never give up.

***

Charlie picks up the crinkled paper, staring at it doubtfully.

“Do you really think this will work?” she asks, “I mean, I know people ask that all the time in the movies and it works perfectly fine, but…” she trails off, squinting at the paper. “I think I see a doodle of a penis in the margins.”

Sam scoffs and plucks the paper from her hands. He crosses the war room, falling into the chair at the head of the table.

“Honestly?” he says, letting out a whoosh of air, “I don’t know. I found it under, ah, stressful circumstances. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

Charlie takes the chair to his right, plunking her chin into her hand dejectedly.

“It’s too bad it’s all been leading up to this and it’s basically turned into a crapshoot,” she says glumly.

Sam shrugs, resigned. “That’s usually how these things tend to go.” He laces his fingers behind his head and leans back slightly. “In our experience, the universe generally wants to correct itself, so at least we have someone in our corner.”

“Do you even know what it says yet?” Charlie asks, moving to stand and peer over Sam’s shoulder at it. She has to stand on her tiptoes to see it properly.

Sam shakes his head. “Kevin’s taught me a couple things- simple phrases, words- so when I saw this, I took it and got the hell out of there.”

“So what was it about this crumpled piece of paper that differentiated it from all the other crumpled pieces of paper?”

At that, Sam actually almost cracks a triumphant smile. He points to a symbol that looks like a fish cut in half.

“This here means ‘unity’,” he explains. He points to another symbol, a series of short, jagged lines arranged in a square spiral. “This one definitely talks about gates, so…” he looks at Charlie, obviously pleased with himself, and Charlie does her best to smile back.

“Um,” she says, “And that’s… uh, all you got?”

“I was about to get sucked into a celestial black hole,” Sam defends himself, “I didn’t have a whole lot of time to peruse.”

“Okay, okay, sorry.” Charlie returns to her seat, tapping her fingers lightly on the table’s surface, tracing the southern tip of South America. Her eyes grow wistful.

“I think I’m going to go spend some time with Carson once all this is over,” she says, her hands stilling, “That’s assuming this actually _will_ be all over soon.”

Sam leans back and crosses his arms thoughtfully, nodding. “How’s it going with you two, anyway?”

Charlie makes a useless gesture with her hand in answer, but her expression gives it away. She really cares.

“What about you?” Charlie asks, “When this is all said and done with, what are you going to do?”

Sam fidgets, looking a lot more out of sorts than is necessary for the question that was asked. He scrubs his jaw.

“Um,” he says, “Yeah, I- I’m not sure.”

Charlie raises a brow.

“Really,” she asks flatly. “Not sure as in, ‘I honestly have no idea’ or, ‘I _do_ know I just don’t wanna talk about it’.”

Sam uncrosses his arms and then crosses them again.

“Okay,” he says, “You got me.”

“Man, I thought you lied for a living. You suck.”

Sam shrugs helplessly.

“People don’t usually ask me about my future,” he says by way of explanation. “They just kind of… expect it from me. Or exempt me from it. I don’t know.”

Charlie’s expression softens.

“You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“Of course I have.” Now it’s Sam’s turn to be wistful, and even though Charlie knows he did a couple years at Stanford, those years of the Winchesters’ lives are still somewhat of a mystery to her. “Sometimes it feels like the only thing I ever think about, and sometimes we’re too busy being neck deep in ghosts and demons and angels for me to even look at pencil that way.”

“Well,” Charlie smiles supportively, “We’re almost at the end of the line, here. The world is your oyster… and stuff.”

Sam suppresses a laugh.

“Thanks, Charlie,” he says.

Charlie lightly punches him in the shoulder.

“Just don’t go dying on me, okay?”

***

Kevin's been ready for this whole thing to be over since the moment it started.

From missing that advanced placement exam to the sex torture dungeon, to Dick Roman and running for his life on his own for months on end, to Channing and getting his finger chopped off, to his mom being taken, to the angels falling.

It's been a nightmare from start to finish.

And yet, as he's finally packing his bag for good this time, he finds a small, small part hidden away somewhere in his chest already starting to pang uncomfortably.

He helped (and for the next however many days, will continue to help) save the world. As badly as they showed it and as awfully as they treated him sometimes, Sam and Dean care about him, even if they're shit at proving it.

He's beyond excited to finally get to university. In the past couple years, his priorities have shifted, but not enough to keep him away from the bright beacon that is higher learning. Maybe he'll finally pick up that whole vegan thing again as well, since Princeton will most likely be more accepting of his dietary choices than Dean ever was.

But he's come to like it here, in his own Stockholm Syndrome-y kind of way. They actually did end up buying him Skyrim, and he's found a friend in Charlie, and, even though he gives off more of a weird uncle vibe than anything else, Castiel too. Kevin's not sure he'll ever be able to call Sam and Dean friends, necessarily, but they're family, regardless.

Really, they would all make one hell of a Christmas card cover.

There's a knock on his door, and in typical mom fashion, Linda walks in before he can respond.

"How's the packing going?" She asks, hair sticking up in all directions like she's had her head in a duffel bag for the past hour- hell, she probably has.

Kevin holds up a wrinkled shirt in a ball.

"Making progress," he says, as his mother rolls her eyes.

"Pack it right, Kevin," she orders, face only stern for a moment before softening.

"How are you doing?" she asks, more quietly.

Kevin shrugs.

"Bittersweet," he admits. "More sweet than bitter, but still."

Linda nods sympathetically.

"I can't say the Winchesters are my favorite people ever," she says, obviously holding back for the sake of her son, "but this has been your home for a while now." She touches the doorframe gently, like she's thanking it for taking care of her son when she couldn't. "Soon we'll have a home of our own. I talked to my sister today- Phoebe- and we can stay with her until we get our own place."

Kevin nods.

"Sounds good," he says. To both his and Linda's surprise, he chuckles. "Uh, mom, what did you tell her about where we've been for the last couple years?"

Linda raises her eyebrows innocently.

"I told her the truth," she says, "I tracked down your punk runaway ass and then made you piggyback me back home as punishment."

Kevin snorts, and Linda rolls her eyes, smiling, but there's still something hidden and dark behind it that Kevin knows will never go away. He knows, because he's pretty sure he's got it, too.

"I did tell her about the runaway part," Linda continues, "but I just told her the pressure had been too much, and you weren't ready to come home yet," she shrugs, "as far as I'm concerned, that's all she needs to know."

"Good." Kevin sits back on his bed, crossing his legs. "Simple. Concise."

Linda smiles.

"I get it from you," she jokes.

***

Puriel, despite still glaring at Cas every chance she gets, offers to get the ingredients they don’t already have for the spell. She calls him a couple of days after Metatron bites it.

“I want to go home,” she says in explanation, after Cas’s brow had creased in confusion. “I want to go _home_.”

Cas can understand that. He just wishes he had a clear cut idea of what home was.

She meets him at a diner in town, already on her third cup of coffee when Cas walks in, tinny bell ringing above his head. Everything about her is hard edges, from her heels all the way up to her gaze, and how she looks at Cas like she’s seriously considering just dumping the rest of the coffee in his lap as a greeting.

It’s hard to Cas to reconcile this Puriel with the one who he could hear _aching_ over the phone to go back home. He always has to remind himself that she’s not hard hearted- in fact, she seems to be one of the most earnest people he’s ever met.

It’s just the fact that she hates him. The reason why his stomach drops every time he sees her isn’t necessarily because of that fact. It’s because he has to come to terms with the fact that he destroyed things so badly that any vitriol directed at him is completely and one hundred percent justified.

Cas has heard talk- more colloquial than not, notwithstanding that first night with Dean- of what a broken heart supposedly feels like, and he thinks that the only event in his mortal life so far to even come close to that description is when he comes up against the terrifying notion that everything he’s ever done- both to protect heaven and otherwise- is reflected in the eyes of his siblings alongside abject distrust and- similar to Puriel- outright contempt.

He’s not unaware of the number of his siblings who agree with his actions- or even revere him for them- but said agreement tends to seem so much lesser when he’s faced with those who vehemently opposed him every step of the way. To know there are others out there who think like Puriel, who feel the same way- less than before since he slaughtered the majority of the dissenters a couple years ago- never fails to make him question almost every decision he’s made since he came to earth eight years ago, wearing the face of Jimmy Novak for the first time. The few exceptions (most involving Dean) even manage to eat at him, since he’s painfully aware of the strong personal bias present.

Sometimes, late at night when he’s too tired to feel guilty for it, Cas wonders how things would have turned out if he hadn’t been the first one to reach Dean in hell- if Uriel or any other sibling had beat him to it and subsequently been charged with dealing with the righteous man and his wayward brother.

Maybe, somewhere along the line, Cas would have gotten it in his head all on his own that heaven wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and eventually ended up in the same place regardless. Or maybe he wouldn’t have.

Perhaps he would’ve continues to remain oblivious, amenable to Naomi’s constant treatments. Maybe he would have died in the ensuing battle if the apocalypse had kept to its strict schedule.

The thought, though, of never meeting Dean, of never experiencing all he had to offer- it’s almost too much for Cas to contemplate. He’s lived for so long, and yet his time with Dean feels so incredibly important and worthwhile and full, in a way he can only understand now that he’s experienced both its absence and its ultimate, glowing presence.

He slides into the seat across from her, yanking off the absurdly fluffy hat Dean bought for him at Good Will a couple weeks back as a joke. Just to spite him, Cas has taken to wearing the hat as often as possible, now that the colder weather is finally starting to slip through the cracks of the bunker. Dean well and truly believes he loves it, and Cas isn’t above enjoying his friend’s complete dissonant reaction to _his_ reaction.

“I’ll help you,” Puriel says after taking another sip of coffee. It’s still steaming, but Cas can see that she’s already drunk at least two thirds of it. Her mouth must be scalding. “Tell me what you need.”

So. Right to business then. Cas really shouldn’t have been expecting anything else.  He ignores the urge to fiddle with his hat. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled list written on shitty note paper. He slides it across the table to Puriel, who snatches it up.

“Ignore the last item,” Cas says. “I’ve got that covered.”

Puriel nods slowly as she glances down to the bottom of the list, her expression freezing.

“Really,” she says flatly, raising her gaze to Cas.

“I thought you’d be happy,” Cas challenges softly.

Puriel shakes her head, frustrated. “It’s not about that,” she says wearily, “You _know_ it’s not about that.” And in that moment, Cas completely understands. Puriel is just as much a soldier as he ever was. She’s tired, too. She has people she needs to protect, too.

“We all think we’re doing the right thing,” Cas muses, staring down at the table for a moment before finding his attention caught by Puriel’s coffee mug. “It’s unfortunate when it turns out we’re not.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s advice,” Cas corrects, leaning back until the vinyl squeaks under him. “I highly advise you take it.”

Puriel looks at him suspiciously, but tucks the list away into a pocket regardless.

“Some of this stuff will be hard to get,” she says neutrally, “But luckily, a couple of us dropped into some high ranking officials in the eastern hemisphere, so we should be able to get it all in, express, by tomorrow night.” She stands abruptly, tossing a couple of ones onto the table. It doesn’t escape Cas’ notice that she tips five dollars on a single coffee check. A strange expression crosses her face just before she turns to leave. “You should know,” she adds on, her tone odd, “That some of our brothers and sisters have decided to stay behind. Not a lot, but a few.”

Cas has absolutely no idea how to respond to that bomb, blanching. Puriel takes pity on him. “I’ll be in touch,” she says crisply, regaining her sternness from earlier, and walks away, sliding a slim, expensive looking phone out of her jacket pocket and immediately starting to dial. Just as she’s opening the door, Cas hears her greet someone in Russian.

Cas stares at Puriel’s coffee, stunned, until if finally gives it up and stops steaming. He should have realized she was basically the leader of his fallen siblings. He should have considered he might not be the only one caught between a rock and a hard place anymore.

***

Apparently, some of them have been traveling for days to get here, to say goodbye to Cas.

"I feel like you're the Beatles but instead of screaming teenaged girls, your biggest fan demographic is people with very sore throats," Dean mutters as he stares in disbelief at the huge amount of angels milling around the abandoned parking lot.

When Cas doesn't respond, Dean clarifies, "because no one ever fucking says anything."

"If you'll recall, I'm not exactly a 'chatty Cathy' either," Cas finger quotes wryly, but Dean can see the way the worry pulls at the corner of his eyes. He nudges Cas with his shoulder.

"It'll be okay," he says, and immediately regrets it. His stomach twists as he leans closer and mutters, "you know this doesn't have to be goodbye, right?"

Cas turns to look at him for the first time since they've arrived, eyes weary.

"Some of these angels are staying on earth," he explains neutrally, although Dean's gotten good enough at deciphering Cas's micro expressions to know that it's eating him up inside. "Either way, I'll be saying goodbye to someone."

Silence falls between them as Dean desperately tries to think of any conciliatory language that won't sound pandering and shitty, but he can't come up with anything, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Angels drift up to Cas in twos and threes, some just offering words, some outright pulling Cas into hugs. It surprises Dean, maybe more than it should. After all, these angels have been inside vessels for going on half a year now. They're bound to pick up a gesture or two. Look at Cas.

Dean feels like he's at a wedding, (not that he's ever actually been to one) like Cas is one of the newlyweds that people line up to congratulate, or, in the case of not having spoken in ten years and yet somehow still receiving an invitation, a quick, somewhat awkward exchange of good will. Dean nods at a couple of the angels who look at him curiously, but otherwise, he keeps to himself. He listens closely, though.

So many of these angels practically throw themselves at Cas’ feet. Dean’s never been one hundred percent sure of Cas’ popularity poll results at any given time, but it’s obvious that these guys genuinely believe he’s the real deal. It reminds him of Alfie last year; _I think too much heart was always Castiel’s problem_.

Maybe it’s because most of the angels who showed up here today have spent the last six months attempting to acclimatize, but he thinks they can finally appreciate the sentiment. It makes his chest swell and his eyes sting at the same time. It’s not like Dean’s proud of all the things Cas has done, but he’s proud of _Cas_ , if that makes any sense at all. He watches Cas shake hands and accept hugs and if there were babies around, he’d probably kiss them like any good politician. The thing is, there’s nothing fake about it. Every single person who comes up to Cas matters. Dean can see it in the way Cas listens to them, in the way his eyes shift with every word spoken. Cas cares about his people. He loves his siblings, and it all seems to collapse onto Dean at once that _this is what Cas would be giving up_. Dean’s not a fan of the angels in any way, shape, or form, but that doesn’t matter. They’re Cas’ family, and Dean’s been around the block enough times by now to know that at least some of them are worth Cas’ time. Some of them (if not the majority of them at this point) want to be the good guys, or at the very least, want nothing to do with earth anymore. Cas’ family is already splitting up, and it kills Dean to think that Cas might choose to stay for something as insubstantial as a human who can’t even spit out how he really feels.

He walks away without saying anything, ignoring Cas when he asks where he’s going. The Impala is parked the next block over under a sputtering street lamp, and Dean leans against the driver’s side door, trying to ignore the way the guilt is squeezing his rib cage like a vice.

A moment later, obviously having followed him, Cas rounds the corner. When he spots Dean, he moves forward, keeping a respectable distance between them.

Dean tries not to be the one to break the silence, but Cas is a formidable opponent.

“You should go back,” Dean gives in, hands shoved in his pockets, refusing to meet Cas’ eye. “They need you. You need them.”

When Cas sighs audibly, Dean looks up to meet a frustrated gaze.

“You want me to stay,” Cas says. “Then you want me to go.”

“Of course I don’t want you to go,” Dean snaps, feeling his body coil tight, and he heaves himself off the car just for the sake of the movement, “But I don’t want you to stay for…” he looks away, mouth tight. “For the wrong reasons.”

Cas’ brow creases in confusion, the frustration melting away under his failure to comprehend.

 “The wrong reasons?” he asks, and there’s a defensive tone hidden somewhere underneath.

“I don’t…” Dean doesn’t want to presume, but he doesn’t want to undersell this either. He makes a useless gesture with his hand. “I don’t want you to worry about what _I_ may want, okay?”

Cas shakes his head slightly, crossing his arms. He redistributes his weight, as if he feels the need to respond to Dean’s angry, frenetic movements.

“You want me to stay,” Cas states flatly. “Right?”

How after all this time Cas still has to ask will forever be a mystery to Dean.

“I-” Dean wants to say, _of course I want you to stay you fucking idiot_. But he doesn’t know how to say that and mean it one hundred percent when he’s also asking Cas to completely ignore it. He doesn’t want Cas to think he’s trying to get rid of him, doesn’t want him to think he _has_ to stay for his benefit. Fuck, he’d rather Cas decide to stay on earth because he likes how they do their steak or something.   

He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing.

Cas freezes completely for just a second, long enough for Dean to know he’s fucked up royally (again), and then thaws out completely.

“That’s… good to know,” he says, horribly stiff, formal. Backing away. For a terrifying second, it reminds Dean of their first few encounters, where he could swear he could see the stick up Cas’ ass if he got caught in the right light.

“No, Cas,” he tries to course correct, but feels the plane going down regardless, “That’s not what I-”

“No,” Cas interrupts harshly, “Of course not. It’s fine, Dean. I shouldn’t have presumed…” he trails off, swallowing visibly. “I’m just going to go back,” he says, already walking away.

Dean almost lets him leave. For a full five seconds he stares desolately at the pavement, as if there’s going to be some fucking answers there. He runs through all the possible scenarios in his head thanks to the conversation they just had, and he fucking hates every single outcome.

Then he runs after him.

“Cas!” he calls, running to catch up with him. “Cas, wait!” he catches him in a silent alleyway, just around the corner, spinning him around with a hand to the shoulder. Cas stares at him, face masklike. “I don’t want you to go,” Dean pants, “Cas, of course I don’t want you to leave, jesus _christ_ , man.”

“Then why did you just say-” Cas starts, but Dean interrupts.

“- Because I suck at words! Because you suck at listening and walked away before I could even try to explain what I was trying to explain.” Dean drags a hand down his face. This is going swimmingly. “Okay, look, I don’t want you thinking you have to stay because _I_ want you to. Because more than I want you to stay, Cas, I want you to do what’s good for you. You gotta hear me, here, because if you end up making this choice for the _wrong reasons_ and somewhere down the line resent the fuck outta me for it-”

Cas crowds him against the alley wall, one hand encircling his wrist and the other resting against his neck. Dean thinks he’s going to kiss him, but instead, Cas just rests his head for a moment against Dean’s chest, breathing quietly.

He steps away after a minute, holding onto Dean’s wrist, gently trailing his fingers across Dean’s palm to properly interlock their fingers.

“I hear you,” he promises, before pressing Dean’s hand back to his side and returning to the angels.

***

Dean jokingly calls it ‘The Last Supper’.

According to this spell, there’s a very good chance one of them isn’t going to make it out of their respective dimension.

“You’re so fucking morbid,” Charlie complains, attacking a dinner roll like she’s just discovered it has teeth.

“Shut up,” Dean says, “Eat your chili.”

Sam looks down the table to Linda and Kevin.

“You two ready to go?” Sam asks, “Did you need help with anything?”

Linda shakes her head.

“We’re fine, thanks,” she says. “It’s not like I had a lot with me. The biggest thing Kevin has is that godforsaken player station-”

“-Playstation 3, mom.”

“-So we should be fine.”

Sam nods, smiling.

“I’m happy for you two,” he says. “Really.”

“I’m not going to lie, we could really use all the well wishes we can get, right now,” Linda admits, almost sheepishly.

 “Just know that there’s always a room for you here,” Sam reminds them. He looks at Kevin. “Although I guess you’ll be too busy living on a full scholarship at Princeton to stop by for a quick game of melee?”

Kevin glances at his mother before saying, “Maybe.”

Linda rolls her eyes.

“He’ll be attending Princeton,” she informs the table, before reaching over to ruffle her son’s hair. “He’s trying to look out for his poor, defenseless mom.”

“I didn’t say that,” Kevin protests, but Linda just holds up a hand.

“Save it,” she says, “Princeton is your dream school. You’re going.”

Kevin looks like he wants to argue, but the excitement is too obvious on his face for him to really make a case for it.

“Y’know,” Sam says slowly, glancing at Dean and then at Kevin, “Assuming this all goes to plan tomorrow, we might be study buddies come next fall.”

There’s a clatter when Dean drops his spoon into his almost empty bowl, but when the entire table turns to look at him, he busies himself by standing up abruptly and taking his dirty dishes to the sink.

When no one says anything, Cas leans forward and says, “That’s amazing, Sam. Were you thinking of going back to Stanford?”

“Uh, not quite,” Sam says, slightly uncomfortable. “I left under what I’m sure the school would deem fairly suspicious circumstances.” He coughs awkwardly. “I was thinking Columbia, or maybe Berkeley.”

“Those are both excellent schools,” Linda offers, “You’ll do well wherever you choose to go.”

Sam nods his thanks just as Dean returns to the table.

“That’s great news, Sam,” he says, and the words are genuine, even if the smile isn’t. Sam didn’t necessarily want to do the big announcement like this, but figured it would save the inevitable blowout, or at least put it off. Besides, if they die tomorrow, Dean won’t have to chance to freak out.

“Thanks,” Sam says, and scrapes at the dregs in his bowl extra loudly just to fill the ensuing silence.

***

After dinner Dean rushes everyone out of the kitchen and does the dishes by hand even though they have a perfectly adequate (if outdated) dishwasher.

Sam watches from the doorway for a couple minutes, his lurking covered by the sound of the tap running as Dean furiously scrubs at the chili pot. Once he’s finished cleaning it, he plunks it back into the sink and fills it with scalding water, hoping to loosen some of the dried meat, Sam assumes. When the water stops, Sam steps forward, making sure he lands hard enough for Dean to hear.

When he realizes he isn’t alone, Dean’s shoulders stiffen.

“Mind if I dry?” Sam asks innocuously. Wordlessly, Dean throws him the towel without looking at him. Sam steps up beside his brother at the sink and starts on the bowls.

They work in silence for the most part, the only noise coming from the tap and the occasional clink of cutlery. Dean’s maybe washing a little too harshly for what it is he’s doing, but Sam doesn’t say anything.

They’ve been at it for twenty minutes when, seemingly out of the blue, Dean spins on the spot and throws the glass he’s been rinsing at the wall opposite, shattering loudly and spraying bits of glass everywhere. Sam ducks out of the way, yelling, “ _Fuck_ , Dean!”

Dean stares at the wall as if in a trance, his chest heaving and his eyes bright with malice.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam says again, slowly standing up and returning to his original position, keeping an eye on the rest of the dishes still in the sink.

He still doesn’t meet Sam’s eye, just collapses into a chair and stares at the wood grain.

“It’s not the school thing,” Dean says despondently. “I mean, it _is_ , but it’s not.”

Sam takes the seat across from him, schooling his features into a more sympathetic expression.

“Cas might be leaving, too,” Dean admits hollowly. “I dunno yet, but he might go back upstairs for good this time.”

Sam tries to hide his surprise, but must not do a very good job of it because when Dean finally looks up, he snorts.

“It’s not-” Sam starts, and then falters. “I can’t speak for Cas,” he starts again, “But it’s not like I’m going to go to school and never pick up the phone or visit, Dean. I’m leaving the state, not the hemisphere. We’ll still see each other.”

Dean shakes his head, “I get that,” he says, though it sounds like the words have trouble making themselves known, “I know that you’re doing what’s best for you, and I can only hope Cas is going to do the same. I’m pissed at myself because I’m pissed that you’re all leaving. I _need_ people, Sam, even if it makes me a selfish, horrible person.”

Sam leans forward earnestly. “You’re not a selfish, horrible person, Dean. You know it’s not just us against the world anymore. There’s Cas and Charlie and Kevin and Linda and Jody and all the others. We’re not leaving you just because we’re… y’know.” Sam clears his throat. “Leaving you.” He opens his palms, as if to plead his case, “And we’re not _leaving you_ , anyways, Dean. We’re just living our lives.”

Dean points to his temple with his index finger.

“Logically, I get that,” he explains, “It’s just everything else that’s the problem.”

“You mean your emotions,” Sam says bluntly, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Yes, Sam, my _emotions_ ,” he sneers, “Sorry I can’t control my raging hormones.”

“That’s not-” Sam makes a frustrated noise. “You don’t have to hide it, Dean. You’re allowed to be upset people are leaving, but you need to understand they’re not doing it to get away from you, or to punish you, or whatever other toxic shit you’ve got built up in there. They’re just doing what people _do_.”

Dean pushes back harshly from the table, chair legs grating against the floor.

“I know,” Dean says, obviously wanting out of this conversation in the next ten seconds. “Or at least, I want to think I do.” He stands up, picking up the dishcloth Sam left on the table and flings it back onto the counter. “Thanks for helping with the dishes,” he says coolly, and walks out of the room.

***

The plan is this.

The spell that Sam nabbed from Metatron’s place is a doozy, and him, Dean, and Cas have a very long discussion about who plays which part. It’s achingly on the nose in its symbolism, but then again, Sam thinks, it’s not like their lives have ever been subtle.

The surprise, then, comes with the decision that Cas is going to be the one to represent earth’s dimension, while Dean will be heaven’s champion.

Sam will stand in for hell.

“I was never quite divine enough,” Cas says with the air of a joke, although it’s an obvious farce. He looks at Dean with soft eyes. “It’s not just about birthright. You embody everything heaven should stand for, Dean.”

Sam wants to say, churlishly, _what, and I embody everything hell stands for_?

But he knows that’s not it. He’s certainly not going to begrudge his brother for being a good person.

“You embody humanity pretty well yourself, Cas,” Dean says, nodding approvingly after the color has disappeared from his cheeks thanks to Cas’ last remark. “The determination. The grit.” He elbows Cas jokingly. “The _drive_.”

Cas inclines his head, smile small and humble.

“I have to say,” he says quietly, “the idea that you don’t have to be human to be… human. It’s a nice one.” He glances at Dean slyly. “And I’ll have you know I only scratched the Impala on the underside of the bumper that _one_ time, thank you very much.”

“You what?!” Dean squawks, and for a full ten seconds he doesn’t realize Cas is fucking with him, while Sam shakes with laughter in the background.

“Wow,” Dean says, looking between the two of them. “Okay, I’ve changed my mind. You’re not human anymore you officially suck.”

“Well I think that just makes me the most human human around,” Cas quips.

***

Their last night is quiet.

Dean glances at Cas a couple times in the library and only idly considers a last night on earth speech. Not only has it not worked particularly well for him in the past, but for the life of him, he just can’t bring himself to ask. It would be too much like a goodbye, feel like a fuck-and-chuck, even if that’s the last thing they’ve ever been

Every once in a while he shares a glance with Sam. They’ve been through this so many times before- the gritty, determined jaws and the mutual acknowledgment that this might, finally, be it for them. Dean would be lying if he said it _hasn’t_ gotten any easier. There’s always been that fear of losing Sam simmering away in his gut, whether they’re hunting for a werewolf or having a couple brews, but these big life or death ordeals, Dean’s stopped trying to see them as the grandiose things they are. It’s a defense mechanism also employed to keep his head in the game, and he’s thankful for it.

Oh, he’ll pull Sam into a hug tomorrow. They’ll say goodbye and it’ll be sad and for a brief moment, Dean will consider the very real possibility of one or both of them not walking away from this. But then the shutters will snap shut and they’ll get on with the hunt. It’s just how these things have to be from now on.

In a weird way, Dean almost feels the worst for Cas out of the three of them, despite Cas having the (relatively) safest job of staying on earth. Waiting for someone to come back is an exercise Dean’s come to know unfortunately well- even worse when there’s always the possibility of them not coming back.

The thought of Cas in the bunker alone is one that haunts Dean long after everyone has gone to bed. He lies in bed alone and stares at the ceiling, trying to convince himself that if Cas stays, there are a lot of things about humanity that he’d enjoy; gardening, bad b movies, strong coffee, among other things. He also tries to convince himself that Cas is staying for those things, and not because he knows Dean wants him to, or from some misguided sense of obligation.

Of course, if Cas _goes_ , then that’s not really going to be much better. First and foremost, Cas is Dean’s best friend, and Dean hasn’t had a lot of those. No one gets annoyed by Dean quite like Cas, and no one annoys Cas like Dean can. They’re also really good at fighting, but Dean can hardly hold it against the guy. Watching his eyes flash and his chin jut out stubbornly whenever they argue has always invigorated Dean; passion begets passion, in this case.

But there’s also the fact that Dean is in love with Cas. He figures he’s danced around the word long enough. It’s not like it’s a startling revelation or anything; really, it’s just been one long, inevitable descent. He’s in love with Cas, and while Dean’s never been good with the whole love thing, he’s still more afraid than anything that it won’t be enough. It’s a feeble thing to him, wriggling away in his chest without giving him any say in the matter, and its bitten him in the ass before. Loving things gets them hurt. Loving things complicates everything.

It can be used against him. It’s been done before, and Dean’s sure it’ll be done again.

But they’ll know, regardless. Dean’s learned his lesson about trying to hide Cas away like he’s some delicate thing. Every time they show up to kill something nasty, said nasty thing will have its pick between Sam and Cas. If he thinks about it at his most pessimistic, Cas is just another bargaining chip. Another body waiting to hit the floor.

When a gentle knock comes at his door, Dean gets startled out of his thoughts.

“It’s open,” he says, and he can barely make out Cas’ outline in the doorway. He wants to laugh and say, jokingly, “I was just thinking about you,” except for the fact that he _was_ , and Cas is basically all he’s been thinking about for hours. Instead, he just says, “Can’t sleep?”

Cas moves slightly, but Dean can’t see the expression on his face.

“I’m scared, Dean,” Cas says, his voice smaller than Dean’s ever heard it. More unsure.

Dean’s heart cracks a little. He pats the bed.

“C’mere,” he says, and it only takes a second for the invitation to sink in, and then Cas is crawling into bed beside him. He immediately turns to face Dean, his eyes big in the darkness.

“I know it’s not fair to do this to you,” he says quietly, “because of the nature of the decision. I just wish I had more time.”

Dean can only nod in understanding because he’s not sure what the protocol in this situation is. He rests a hand on Cas’ waist. “I’m not gonna lie, man. That’s how it always feels.”

“Aren’t you worried that nothing ever feels like it’s going to be enough?” Cas asks, shifting under his hand, pressing closer, “The existentialism is a nightmare.”

Dean huffs, amused. “You spouted some pretty good philosophy when you had your wings, too.”

“It wasn’t the same, then,” Cas laments, “I had my doubts, but I wasn’t as finite, either. Time was never an issue.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not here to try and sell you a car that’s gonna break down ten minutes after you leave the lot. I mean, fuck, Cas, you already know what it’s like down here. People grow old and they die, or they die before then, and in between, they try to squeeze as much happiness as they can out of it.”

Cas doesn’t say anything for a minute. The air is tinged with a whole host of things unsaid, and Dean doesn’t know _why_ he can’t say them.

Then, Cas says, back to his typical wryness, “You’d be a good car salesman. You have the face for it.”

Dean half-smiles.

“You wanna buy a wacky waving inflatable arm-flailing tubeman?” he asks, adopting his best Saul Goodman voice. There are much more important things he should be asking right now, and yet this is what comes out of his mouth instead. He’s just playing along with Cas’ playing along with _his_ playing along. They’re not saying what needs to be said, but what needs to be said, well, _needs to be said_.

Cas places his hand over Deans’ on his waist and squeezes.

“I don’t know what that means,” he says teasingly, “But you have such a nice face, I think I’d like to invest in multiple wacky waving inflatable arm-flailing tubemen.” He moves closer to Dean, close enough that they’re practically sharing air. “I’d buy anything you try to sell me, Dean,” he says, dropping the playful tone. “But I appreciate you not trying to sell me humanity.”

Dean nods, throat suddenly dry.

“Yeah, well,” he says hoarsely, still trying to play along, “There are some things even this face can’t sell.”

“You misunderstand me,” Cas says, “You don’t have to sell it to me because I’ve already bought it. It’s been awful and trying and immensely frustrating at times, but not being an angel anymore is, I believe, analogous to a rubber band that’s spent its whole life being wound around objects too large for itself, and then finally one day is released from the objects, left to just _be_ , in a sense. Sometimes I still feel too big for this existence,” he admits, “Too stretched out. Other times, I find it offers perspective.”

 Dean doesn’t have anything to say to that. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s afraid to make any kind of move.

Cas obviously feels like the conversation doesn’t need to continue, as he turns over and settles with his back along Dean’s front, their hands still joined at Cas’ hip.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas says.

Dean clears his throat.

“Yeah,” he says, “G’night.” He presses his lips to Cas’ hair and doesn’t sleep for a long, long time.

***

Morning dawns bright and cold, and everyone gets ready in silence. The drive out is filled with a tense energy and a radio station that plays music from the forties. The Ink Spots and Ella Fitzgerald sing about how too much rain is falling into their lives, and Sam can’t help but agree. However different their lives, it’s nice to know they aren’t alone in this moment.

When they arrive, Dean gets out of the car and sniffs appraisingly.

"You think it'd be a more significant place," Dean comments, "not just some field in northern Missouri."

Cas surveys the land, squinting into the early afternoon sunlight. The trees around the field are colorful, the grass yellow and brittle.

"It's no Stull," he agrees.

Sam stares at the two of them, mouth half open.

"This isn't Sunnydale," Sam says. "We don't just have a convenient hellmouth to draw from. This is the closest place that’s _not_ Oklahoma where we both should be able to cross over. "

"Nerd," Dean says flippantly, checking the land out for himself.

"The fact that you know what I'm referencing makes you a nerd, too."

"Everyone knows what you were referencing, dude, but you cut the cheese, you own it."

"That doesn't even make sense, Dean."

"Your face doesn't make sense."

"How are _you_ the agent of heaven," Sam says flatly, and it’s just meant as a snarky little brother jibe, but Dean’s face falls, and just like that, he’s broken the spell of the petty banter.

“That’s a good question,” Dean mutters, wandering away.

“Fuck,” Sam says, staring after his brother. “Cause that’s a good way to start this.”

Behind them, Charlie, Chuck, and the Trans pull up in their car.

“Well,” Charlie says as they walk up to meet Sam and Cas, “This field sure is… field-y.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “This is the closest place that’s not-”

Charlie holds out a hand.

“We know,” she says. “Trust me, we know.”

Sam closes his mouth.

“It’s just a field,” he says, “That doesn’t mean you guys shouldn’t take this any less seriously. If anything gets out of those portals before we can close them, you need to catalogue them as well as you can.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Charlie says, saluting. “Observe and report.”

“Do not engage,” Cas reminds them, saying something Dean or one of his action movies would probably say. “These creatures, should they get out, will be disoriented enough that they most likely won’t bother with you. We just need to know how many get out, so that all collateral damage can be dealt with accordingly.”

“‘Most likely’ won’t bother us?” Chuck asks nervously.

Linda turns on him, one eyebrow raised ferociously.

“Not that Sam and Dean Winchester need to be defended,” she prefaces, “But they are risking their lives to save the world today. I’d say this is the least we could do.”

Chuck swallows hard and looks first at Sam, then Charlie and Kevin. He nods.

“Y-yeah,” he stammers, “Yeah, of course.”

Linda nods approvingly.

“Now that that’s settled,” she says, looking to Sam, “I figure Kevin and I will watch your portal, Sam, and Chuck and Charlie can keep an eye on Dean’s.” She looks proudly at her son. “We make a good team.”

Sam shoves his hands into his pockets. “Sounds good to me,” he says, just as Dean makes his way back to the group. He turns to his brother, “You find anything?”

Dean nods towards the end of the field closest to them.

“That’s mine,” he says. “Assuming the whole duality nonsense, yours should be at the other end of the field. It won’t be too hard to find.”

Sam nods curtly.

“Okay,” he says, nodding to the others, “How about you guys head out there now. We’ll be right behind you.”

 Charlie immediately steps forward to pull all three of them down into a hug and sniffles a little.

“Another goodbye, huh?” she says wobbly, blinking rapidly as if to ward off tears. “Just make sure it’s not the last.”

Then there’s a hug from Linda and Kevin, and even a sweaty handshake from Chuck.

“Watch yourselves out there,” Kevin says, “I hear it can be rough.”

Sam snorts and pats Kevin on the shoulder. “Thanks, Kev.”

They head off, and Dean, Cas, and Sam are left staring at each other.

“So, Cas, you’re just in the middle, then,” Sam says, “Right between me and Dean.”

Cas nods.

“I’ve marked it,” Dean says, holding up a spray can. “White, environmentally friendly X marks the spot.”

The three of them look towards the middle of the field, the wind picking up momentarily and blowing through the dead and dying grass. It makes an eerie noise, like the plants are whispering to each other. In the trees, the leaves ruffle and crackle.

“So this is- potentially- it,” Sam says bracingly. He glances first at Cas, then at Dean. “You guys ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Dean says distractedly, even though he’s looking at them both. He clears his throat awkwardly.

“Uh, Sam,” he says, gesturing to Cas, “D’you mind giving us a minute?”

“What? Oh, right. Yeah, I’ll go grab the spell ingredients from the car.” He immediately lumbers off, Dean having to throw the keys at the back of his head because he forgot to ask for them.

“So,” Dean repeats, “This is it.”

Cas inclines his head.

“Hopefully not.”

Dean crosses his arms.

“So, Sam definitely knows,” he says as non-chalantly as possible. “He was about as subtle as a chainsaw there.”

“He just wants you to be happy,” Cas says carefully. “He wants to respect your privacy as well.”

“You don’t think he cares that, y’know-” Dean gestures uselessly. “The whole ‘guy’ thing?”

“He wants you to be happy,” Cas repeats, still uneasy, “He doesn’t care where or with whom you seek it.”

It suddenly clicks where Cas’ uncertainness is coming from, and Dean almost starts laughing with the realization. Cas isn’t sure if _he_ makes _Dean_ happy. Either Cas is blind or his self-perception is just as warped as Dean’s.

“Do you remember that night like a million years ago, before we went searching for Raphael in Maine?” Dean asks. At Cas’ slightly confused nod, Dean continues, “We went to the brothel, and I paid for you to get laid. You freaked the girl out so badly she threw something at you and then we had to escape out the back door.”

“I remember,” Cas says, “Although I have no idea why you’re bringing this up now.”

“I’m telling you this, because you obviously forgot the part where I laughed my ass off the entire time,” Dean says enthusiastically. “You were just so… fuck, I dunno, _you_. You reacted like only Cas could. Or,” he says, “That time last year we worked the Fred Jones case in Oklahoma City? Dude, just having you there was like… awesome.” At Cas’ glance, Dean immediately tacks on, “I’m not trying to guilt you or anything. I just don’t want there to be anything unclear from here on out. When you’re here, with me, I’m fucking over the moon, Cas.”

For a moment, Cas just stares at him. Dean can’t even see the wheels turning, just clogging up with all different kinds of thoughts and sluggishly trying to chug along anyway. Then, abruptly, he starts tugging at something hanging around his neck. He wrestles with it for a moment, and it’s only after he manages to pry it out from under all the layers that Dean realizes what it is.

“I want you to have it,” Cas says, thrusting the necklace at Dean. “I’ve decided. I decided a long fucking time ago, Dean. I just didn’t realize until now.”

Dean stares wordlessly at the necklace in Cas’ hand, unable to reach out to take it.

“It will be defunct after heaven closes, but I would hope the symbolism is enough to convince you that I’m staying,” he continues.

It takes almost an entire minute for Dean to get his speech function working again.

“Cas,” he chokes out, “I don’t- if this is because of what I just said-”

“It’s about _everything_ you say, Dean,” he says fiercely, “That’s the point. I want to hear you say more things. I want to hear you say everything.”

“’Everything’,” Dean jokes weakly, barely able to open his palm to receive the necklace from Cas.

Cas smiles, warm and genuine, his eyes a little misty.

“Well,” he says, “Maybe not everything. But close enough.”

Dean glances upward, trying to stop his eyes from watering.

“God, Cas,” he whispers, “I dunno what the fuck to say.”

“You have a lot of time to figure it out,” Cas promises, “I think that’s one of the benefits of staying.”

Dean pulls Cas in by the lapels of his jacket and kisses him full on the mouth.

“I love you,” he says, after breaking off the brief kiss, breathing heavily, “Fuck, I love you, Cas. I would still love you if you were leaving, but I just- I _love you_.”

Cas wraps his arms around Dean, fitting his chin just over Dean’s shoulder.

“I love you,” Cas whispers, “Dean Winchester, you are everything to me.”

Dean fists his hands in the back of Cas’ jacket, and for a moment, it’s six months ago and he’s hugging Cas at a shitty bus stop for the first time since he’s fallen. He could have told Cas then. A lot’s changed since then, but that hasn’t.

A cleared throat startles them out of their hug. Sam steps back into the scene, obviously averting his gaze from the necklace Dean’s currently shrugging on.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, “But we should really get this show on the road.”

Right. The fact that this might all be for nothing because Dean could die today.

“I guess this is really laying all our cards on the table,” Dean says, voice wobbling. Sam gives him a sympathetic glance as he starts doling out supplies.

“We have to synchronize our watches,” Sam says. He glances at Cas. “You’re _sure_ the dimensional change won’t mess with analog?”

Cas shakes his head. “Heaven and hell don’t work on the same schedule as earth. There is no rotating axis, no sun to circle and no hemispheres to warm. It’s just a battery in your watch, and an insignificant one at that. We’ll be fine.”

“Well in that case,” Sam holds out his wrist. Cas and Dean’s hands join him.

“We’ll head in in exactly ten minutes,” Sam suggests, and then we’ll all start our part of the spell directly on the hour, placing the final ingredient in at quarter past. Sound good?”

“That should give you both about five minutes to properly and safely exit your respective dimensions,” Cas says. “Any longer than that and you’re risking being locked in for good.”

“Alright.” Sam pulls Dean into a hug. “Watch out for yourself,” he mutters, patting Dean on the back and hugging him a little tighter.

“Right back atcha, Sammy.” Dean pulls away and waggles a finger at his little brother. “Even if I don’t make it back, I expect your ass back on earth promptly and without a hair out of place.”

“I promise,” Sam says, and Dean feels his throat constrict. He knows his eyes are red by now, but he really doesn’t give a fuck.

“Cas,” Dean starts, but Cas cuts him off.

“I’ll be waiting,” Cas says, tiny tremor in his voice.

Dean lets out a quiet, desperate noise before pulling Cas in again to kiss him one last time.

 “Bye,” he whispers to both of them, one last glance exchanged between him and Sam, Sam smiling faintly, and Dean thinks that maybe Cas was right. Before he gets caught here forever, he turns away and starts walking towards Chuck and Charlie. Sam and Cas start off in silence, Cas stopping in the middle of the field and hugging Sam before Sam continues, by himself, to the far edge of the field to where the Trans are standing.

Chuck looks on awkwardly as he approaches, but Charlie immediately rushes forward, grabbing his hand.

“We’re gonna make it just fine,” she promises, “You guys have pulled off way bigger heists than this in the past. You’re gonna be _fine_. And, hey, if you die, no worries. I’ll take one for the team and marry Cas for you. He’s still super dreamy.”

Dean snorts laughter, and feels himself welling up again.

“Thanks, Charlie,” he says, pulling her into another hug. “ _Thank you_.”

“You’re such a big lug,” Charlie faux-grumbles, but she hugs him back just as tight. Behind her back, Dean glances at his watch.

“Okay,” he says, pulling away and briefly wiping at his eyes. “It’s show time.”

***

Sam feels the familiar sensation of weightlessness as he exploits the weak point in the barrier between earth and hell, and before he knows it, he’s falling- which is a little on the nose for him, but whatever. To be fair to all parties involved, he did jump into a big hole in the ground just a couple years ago and nobody seemed to find it too obvious back then.

He’s not falling for long, which is nice since he’s pretty sure he slams into the ground at terminal velocity. Luckily (and this is the first time he’s ever associated that word with hell) the pain is unbearable for only as long as it takes for the dimension to heal him rapidly. Hell has always been pretty conservative in how it doles out the pain- after all, what’s eternity without a little variety on the torture you’re enduring?

Sam waits out the pain for as long as he dares, want to give himself as much time as possible to find the right spot to cast the spell. When he regains his bearings, he finds himself in a pitch black room, the only light coming from the cracks in the outline of a nearby door. He stands up, adjusting his bag over his shoulder, and cautiously moves towards the door, keeping an ear out.

Last time he was here, he wasn’t so much in the belly of the beast as he was the bowels, so to speak, to rescue Bobby. Since then, there’s been an entire overhaul- a regime change. Crowley was a much more liberal ruler than Abaddon, content to embrace new ideas and new ways of efficiency. Abaddon, however, is the old school, fire and brimstone type.

Cas once told them that Crowley preferred the psychological torture over the physical, having turned hell into one great big line. (At this particular juncture, Sam can’t help but finds that he misses the dumpy asshole, if only because he was prissy enough to hate getting his hands dirty, and it would make Sam’s job a lot easier.

As it stands, however, Sam has the closest to demonic immunity he’s ever got. Their end goals line up nicely enough with Abaddon’s that he doubts she’ll bother sending anyone after him, even though he’s almost positive she knew he was here the moment he crashed into that room back there.

 _Protected from Abaddon,_ by _Abaddon_ , he thinks, and almost goes cross eyed. As far as demonic deals go, at least all souls have remained intact. Abaddon doesn’t seem too interested in souls unless she rips them out of chests with her teeth.

 When Sam opens the door, his immediately brings his forearm up to cover his eyes. The light is so strong.

***

It takes Dean about two seconds to fully realize where he is. He takes in the crème curtains with a pattern of various sports paraphernalia, the light blue walls, the framed, hanging pictures of airplanes and vintage cars. Most importantly, however, under a soft mobile of toy baseballs and baseball bats, lies a crib made of dark wood.

Dean stares down at himself. He’s wearing blue and brown checked pajamas, the bottoms too long and most definitely a tripping hazard.

This isn’t a happy memory for Dean. This is the worst memory of Dean’s life.

Heaven is trying to reassert itself since Metatron’s hold on it has ceased. Cas told him it would be fractured, that the lines would start to blur. He just didn’t expect it to be this much.

He catches a flash of movement in the crib in front of him. Slowly, his bare feet whispering across the carpet, he moves forward. He grips the edge of the crib and peers over, expecting to see—

\-- well, not that.

Not nothing.

“This is wrong,” Dean says out loud, “This isn’t how it happened.”

He was never in Sam’s nursery the night of the fire. His mom was. His dad was. But it’s just him, alone in the room.

He smells smoke. Again, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and spins around to meet it.

Peering at him from around the corner, standing in the hallway, is a little boy with green eyes and a bad bowl cut, wearing the same pajamas as him.

“Dean,” Dean says blankly, then makes a face, “I mean, ‘me’. Little me. Mini me.”

‘Dean’ or whatever weird fragment of his imagination it’s manifesting as, shrinks back a little. Was Dean this timid as a four year old? He feels like he’d be a four year old asshole.

“Hey, uh, _me_ , it’s cool.” Dean takes a step forward to figure out what the hell is going on, “You’re gonna be okay.”

Once fully grown Dean crosses the threshold into the hallway, four year old Dean gasps and sprints away, tiny little feet padding down the carpeted hall.

“Dean!” Dean shouts, frantically shooting the nursery one last glance before he starts chasing the kid down the hallway. Before he can get very far, however, there’s an explosion from somewhere in Sam’s room, fire roaring out the open doorway and knocking Dean against the opposite wall hard enough that he can feel his teeth rattle. His face is burning, his vision red, and his palms raw.

Fire in hell, fire in heaven, fire in fireplaces and on beaches and flaring from the ends of lights and candles. Is there any fucking place in the world that isn’t asking to be burned?

***

Cas stands alone in the field, ignoring how cold he is. He stares at the bowl sitting at his feet, checking his watch obsessively. Fifteen minutes until Sam and Dean have to make the spell rendezvous, and twenty minutes until they have to be back on earth.

Wouldn’t it be an interesting predicament if the Winchesters ended up getting stuck in heaven and hell and Cas ended up stuck on earth. It would be like one of those sitcoms that always seems to be playing on the television in the bunker even if no one watches them. Dean says the audience laughter makes him uncomfortable.

Cas bends down to start pre-mixing the ingredients. He has no way of knowing if Sam and Dean are going to get to their respective spots in time, but he has to trust them.

The wind nips at his bare knuckles as he mixes.

***

The demons Sam runs across are mere wisps of smoke that don’t pay him an ounce of attention. The first time he noticed one, he immediately stopped every bodily function he had control over, but the thing drifted past, completely uninterested.

Honestly, Sam thought hell would be louder. Maybe excess silence is just as good a torture device as noise. He walks through alley after alley, because Abaddon’s version of hell doesn’t seem to be made up of anything else. He feels uncomfortably like a rat in a maze. Claustrophobic.

He doesn’t have an exceptional amount of time, here. Cas’ vague instructions of ‘follow your instincts’ feel much flimsier down here, where every alleyway looks the same.

Eventually, though, he feels the pull in his gut Cas was talking about. He follows dry brick after dry brick, the pull growing strong and stronger, and he briefly contemplates the idea that he still, after all this time, still has an unbearably strong connection to this place. He can find his way in all incarnations of the underworld.

He tries to make a joke of it. Maybe his penchant for navigating nasty underbellies will help him out in the cutthroat world of university admissions.

The door that he’s looking for is just as non-descript as every other door here. Wood finish peeling and cracked, lock looking like someone tried to pick it with a chainsaw blade. A couple of demons leisurely float by, but don’t hesitate.

This is it. This is where Sam has to do the spell.

Hand shaking, he reaches out. Just as he’s about to touch the doorknob, Sam closes his hand in a fist, hissing.

“Fuck you,” he mutters, before dropping his bag to the floor and sitting on the stoop. He starts digging around, first pulling out the small sized metal pot, and then the rest of the ingredients. He checks his watch.  He starts mixing.

On the other side of the door, he can hear the very, very faint strains of Michael and Lucifer still fighting for dominance after all this time.

***

Dean doesn’t know where the hell all the fire keeps coming from, but he knows if he gets caught in it, he’s not going to be able to do the spell, and he’s definitely not going to make it back to earth.

He swears their house was never this big, and yet, the hallways just seem to go on and on and _on_. He goes through door after door, trying to follow the kid, but all he can use to track him is the sound of doors slamming in front of him. The fire continues to roar after him, and Dean trips at least six times on his pajama bottoms.

When it occurs to him that he’s actually here to do a _job_ , Dean glances down at his watch and immediately begins to panic. He has to start the incantation in four minutes.

When he looks back up, he’s in a completely new hallway, and has no idea which way the kid went. The fire licks at his heels regardless, and he has to keep running. This hallway seems to stretch forever. He passes door after samey door, flying through them at random, hoping to lose the fire and find the kid. He looks at his watch again. Three minutes. He’ll barely have time to mix his ingredients at this point.

He blasts out of a door in another hallway that looks exactly the same as the last one, and keeps running, his lungs burning and his eyes watering. As he’s running by, a door on his right opens and a tiny little hand latches onto his with the strength of someone double Dean’s size. Dean gets yanked into a room that’s pitch black, save for the light bleeding in from the hallway through the space between the door and the wall.

Little Dean is yanking insistently on Dean’s sleeve.

“You have to do the spell!” he’s hissing, “Before the fire finds us, you gotta do the spell!”

“Jesus,” Dean mutters as he frantically starts searching through his pack, setting things out. “Are we in fucking House of Leaves here or what?”

Two minutes.

He mixes and mixes and only stops for a moment as he watches Cas’ grace happily swirl in the jar, obviously responding to the spell. He takes one second to close his eyes and bring the bottle to his lips, before he lets it drop and continues with preparing the ingredients.

There’s fire outside the door now, licking under it. Dean uses it as extra light.

It’s time. He glances at the younger Dean, who stares at him out of the darkness.

“Like that’s not fucking creepy,” Dean mutters, clearing his throat. It’s time. Dean begins the Latin, his voice low and quick, fighting against the encroaching heat.

On one side of the doorway, Sam chants. On the other, Dean. Between them, Castiel.

_agens de caelo,_

_ex inferno,_

_hominis._

_ligare. confirma. abrogare._

_intervallo prope_

_separata._

_per unum, procul._

_trium, omnes. expandit._

( _agent of heaven,_

_of hell,_

_of man._

_bind. strengthen. repeal._

_through distance, close_

_through unity, distance._

_three, all. spread._

_combine.)_

There’s light coming from inside the bowl now. Dean is transfixed with the way it lights up the entire room, until the younger Dean starts pulling at his hand again.

“C’mon!” he’s yelling, voice half drowned out by the screech of the fire burning through the wood. “Dean, we gotta run!”

Dean has no idea if the spell worked. He did his part on time, he has to hope Sam and Cas kept it together long enough to finish their bit as well. There’s a rumbling now, outside the noise of the fire. Dean’s heard it before, when Metatron died. Once again, the dimension is rearranging itself, this time, to close its gates for good.

Four year old Dean is practically dragging Dean down the hallway, but Dean’s hand is too slippery, too sweaty. There’s too much smoke and he loses his own hand, and suddenly, he’s alone with the fire again, seemingly on all sides.

He runs.

***

Charlie catches another ripple on her infrared camera. It’s not huge, but she thinks it’s enough. She bites her lip and looks down at her notebook, at least half a page filled up with tally marks.

“Fuck,” she whispers.

***

Cas did the spell on time. He’s been staring at his watch for the past three and a half minutes. At the far end of the clearing, the air shifts, and Sam comes stumbling, tripping out, his chest heaving. He falls over onto all fours, fighting his hair in his face, and Cas allows room for a quick stab of joy before turning his full attention to Dean’s side of the field.

He glances at his watch.

Three and a quarter minutes.

***

Dean’s lost. He’s so fucking lost and surrounded by fire.

 _Save yourselves_ , he thinks wildly _, at least the ship of dreams ain’t goin’ down because of me_.

He’s going to die in a twisted memory of his old family home. Or he’s just going to be stuck here forever.

He wonders if after all this time it was really heaven that was his hell. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Anywhere there’s not a hand for him to grip or a shoulder for him to clasp.

So fucking tactile. Still.

He’s crawling on all fours now, coughing up black stuff. Through watering eyes, he looks at his watch. Two forty five for him to get out.

***

Two forty five.

“I’m going in,” Cas says, and he hadn’t made the conscious decision to do so until he uttered those words. “I couldn’t do the spell, but I can do this.”

“Cas-” Sam starts frantically, but before he can listen to Sam talk about how there’s zero guarantee he’ll even end up in the same spot as Dean, let alone be able to find him, Cas is sprinting towards Dean’s end of the field. Charlie and Chuck watch with wide eyes.

“Hey-” Charlie says, but doesn’t get another word out before Cas is diving through the air, focusing every ounce of energy he has not only on getting into heaven, but getting to _Dean_. He feels the transition between dimensions. For a brief moment, he’s nothing.

Then the universe puts him back together and he’s in a nursery.

It’s on fire.

***

Dean can feel himself being dragged.

Well, he can watch himself be dragged, anyhow. He can’t really feel anything other than burning, blinding pain right now.

He cracks open an eye, and at first he thinks he sees the sturdy back of Cas, dragging him through the hallway.

Then the figure turns around, and Dean’s staring his four year old self in the face.

He turns around again, and there’s the tails of a trench coat slapping him in the face, even though he’s never owned a trench that color and Cas’ was gone months ago.

“Stay with me, Dean,” he hears in Cas’ voice, cracked, before being hefted up and dragged along with one arm slung around someone just a tiny bit shorter than him. It’s reminiscent of how Cas carried him home after he beat him senseless in an alley. “Stay with me.”

Cas’ face looks nice, lit by the fire that way. It plays in shadows across his cheekbones and under his eyes.

Dean manages to stumble forward, clutching onto Cas for dear life. Somehow, Cas finds the nursery.

“Focus, Dean,” he snaps. “We’re here. We can leave. Please, Dean,” pleading now, “I can’t do this for you. You need to do it for yourself and we have less than thirty seconds.”

“God,” Dean manages to rasp out, trying to psych himself up for it, “You’re so fucking clingy.”

He just barely links his fingers with Cas’.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs, and with only seconds left before heaven shuts its gates forever, Dean and Cas manage to slip out together one last time.

***

Immediately, Dean collapses to his knees, and Cas sinks down to the cool ground with him. Dean rests his forehead on Cas’ shoulder, trying to calm his breathing.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he says quietly, “But I’m fucking glad you did.”

Dean can practically hear him smile.

“My reasons we’re entirely noble,” Cas teases gently, his hands still clamoring to find the proper purchase on Dean, “I’d hate to go through all this only to have the man I love stuck in another dimension forever.”

Dean laughs, but he thinks a sob escapes somewhere in there as well. He wraps his arms around Cas, swaying slightly, but Cas keeps him steady.

Dean opens his eyes to see Sam standing a ways back, smiling hugely. He shares a triumphant nod with Dean.

Something cold rubs against Dean’s chest through his shirt, and he pulls back to find the jar of Cas’ now depleted grace hanging limply against his neck. When Cas realizes what Dean is staring at, he gently picks up the jar in his palm, closing the other one over it.

“I know it’s fairly early in the relationship to give jewelry,” he says quietly, wryly, placing the jar back against Dean’s chest, in front of his heart. “It’s also quite ugly. Also, it was the last ingredient in the spell.”

Dean reaches up to touch it for himself, and shakes his head slightly, accepting the revelation with quiet reverence.

“It’s not ugly,” is all he says, quietly, seriously. “It’s a part of you.”

***

**Two Days Later**

Everyone sleeps like the dead for about twelve hours straight, Dean only waking up once because he’d forgotten how sweaty it gets when sharing a bed with someone and _intertwining_. All he really changes about their position once he goes back to sleep, however, is to shove Cas off his arm because it had gone numb at some point.

He wakes up at two in the afternoon and slips out of bed to start cooking the big farewell dinner.

As he’s mixing (food, this time, not spell ingredients) he considers the creatures that escaped the other dimensions. Probably a lot more escaped than what they could see. Dean’s quite sure there are hundreds of those things across the globe.

But, according to Cas, they aren’t alone anymore. Despite a small number of the fallen angels choosing to remain on earth, an even smaller number has expressed interest in hunting. In doing good.

In a couple day’s time, Dean and Cas and Sam (giving it one last hurrah before properly starting on forging all that university paperwork) are going to meet with six fallen angels in the backwoods of Arkansas to start training. Simple stuff first, like where the safety on a gun is and how to not get snuck up on and knocked out (neither Winchester nor Castiel have yet mastered this technique.) Cas has faith in his brothers and sisters, talks about them with a gusto that makes Dean’s heart do somersaults.

It’ll never be the same as when they were all angel’d up (essentially, the grace in the rest of the fallen is going to slowly die out, rendering them with mostly just human capabilities. As far as their species classification, Dean doesn’t even bother. They are what they are; in this case, eager and helpful) but they’ll make do.

They always do.

***

Dean calls it the last last supper, and everyone groans. Cas grimaces a little bit.

Dean makes a toast.

"I like to think of it as unclogging the toilet to let any future shit flow freely," Dean says with a smile that's only a little bit resigned. He raises his glass. "Cheers."

Sam and Charlie glance at each other, twin expressions of disgust on their faces. Linda has an eyebrow raised dangerously high, and when Dean sees it, he coughs awkwardly and starts shoving mashed potatoes into his mouth.

"Despite Dean's crass phrasing," Cas says smoothly, "I think we can all appreciate the sentiment for what it is." He smiles at Dean and raises his glass as well. "Here's to shit."

Kevin snorts into his meat loaf as Chuck looks longingly at the half full brandy bottle on the kitchen counter.

"Oh god," Charlie moans, mock horrified, "you too?"

Cas shrugs. "I still eat salads," he defends himself mildly.

"Traitor," Dean grumbles, before swallowing a huge mouthful of potatoes and chasing it by drinking half his glass of milk.

"You know," Charlie comments thoughtfully, "I know this isn't, like, the actual end of your story, but in a way, it's kind of like the end of another season of books. I mean," she gestures at everyone around the table, "we're all here, we're all safe. The big bad problem has been solved." She smiles fondly, "We made it, guys."

Dean looks at Sam, at Kevin and Linda and Charlie- hell, even Chuck somehow managed to budge his way in there, even if it's just because his flight back east doesn't leave for another couple days.

Lastly, even though they're sitting right beside each other, Dean meets Cas' eye and feels a small, private grin ghost across his lips. He can feel the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

Cas looks at him warmly, and even though they both know it's going to be a tough road, fraught with arguments and misunderstandings and ridiculous fucking immaturity, Dean knows it's going to be a journey worth taking.

Trust him; he drives a lot. He would know.

Under the table, Cas briefly touches the back of Dean's hand.

Charlie glances at Chuck.

"You should say it," she says.

Chuck's forehead creases.

"Say what?" He asks.

"You're the one who wrote the original Winchester gospels," she prompts, "maybe you can give this story a better ending than your last one."

"Charlie..." Sam starts, but Charlie shushes him, flapping a hand in his direction, not taking her eyes off Chuck.

Chuck looks nervously around at everyone, and winces somewhat at the put out expression on Sam's face.

"Um," he says, and scratches fretfully at his beard.

"C'mon," Charlie wheedles, grinning, "it doesn't have to be super profound or anything. Just a closing paragraph to this particular run. A nice last line."

Chuck coughs and clears his throat noisily, taking longer than necessary as if he's expecting someone to jump in to stop him, but no one does.

"Okay," he starts, taking a deep breath, and his voice changes, more like someone telling a story around a campfire than a perpetually tentative borderline alcoholic, "this is not an ending," he says (frankly, pretentiously- the time away from the writing obviously hasn’t done him much good.) "It's not a new beginning, or a middle, or an end. As much as we want our lives to be straightforward, morally sound stories, the most many of us can hope for is an interesting blip or two on the radar along the way." He nods at Sam and Dean, "I did say 'most'. But the Winchesters tend to live their lives the opposite, where a plateau is considered out of the ordinary. You've lived an... Exciting life, at the very least." His voice grows somber. "You've lost people. Friends, family. But you've also found friends. Family." Again, his eyes roam around the table. "I think we can all agree that you guys aren't perfect, that you've made mistakes- but then again, what protagonists haven't? We're all the main character in our own story, and we've all screwed up." He smiles faintly, like he's decided this isn't so bad after all, "you guys did your best. You saved the world a couple times, so congrats on that, from me and the rest of the population, I'm sure." He's looking past everyone now, his fingers twitching on the table as if there's a keyboard sitting in front of him.

"In real life, we don't have character arcs and perfectly spun plots. Things get messy and sad and people sneeze at inconvenient times. No one's mid life crisis is going to win them a Pulitzer.

But you kept on, and you'll keep keeping on, regardless. You'll all figure out what you want to do and where you want to go from here, but don't think of it like an ending, or even a new beginning. If you have to, just think of it as a new chapter." He nods again, finality in his voice. "But this is not an ending."

 

THE END


End file.
